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The Masks We Wear

I have never hidden myself from her. Not once. That is, above all things, pretty damned impressive. I usually do all I can to hide the Real Me from view around anyone. I always worry that if people see the Real Me for just one moment, they will be repulsed.

She has known the Real Me long enough now, and yet she hasn’t gone anywhere.

I adore spending time with her. You must forgive the old cliché but she fills me with butterflies. With a butterfly house. A million butterflies, a storm of butterflies. If you were to slice my stomach open they would burst forth, colorful and beauteous, spiraling towards the sky like a tornado of petals.

But I worry, because the more time we spend together, the more she gets to know the Real Me, the more I worry that she will eventually turn away. I am not a man with any real depth or substance, and when she realizes this she will walk away like so many others have in the past. That scares me because, for the first time in a while, I feel like I have something to lose.

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