I am flawed, this is a given; but when it comes to my emotions I wear my heart on my three-quarter length sleeve. If I’m embarrassed, my face reddens to an even more embarrassing hue; when I’m upset, my eyes dampen, a water cooler on the verge of exploding (water coolers don’t usually do this, but hell, who cares?).
It never used to be this way. I used to be a fortress, a safe deposit box, a wall. You need to stop being so damn obvious. They’ve figured you out. But it isn’t because I’m young; I know plenty of people my age you’d have to punch before you pull a tear. I know when it started. I know it happened when my grandma passed away. But death will do that to you: make you stronger, make you weak. It does all those things; but damn it, I need to be composed. So for the next few weeks, my goal is to become as tough as a gravestone. OK, not really a gravestone (over-dramatic). I just want better control of my facial expressions. A girl’s gotta have some secrets.
An on-the-spot poem about gravestones and Humpty Dumpty:
They made his gravestone
out of eggshells,
so his soul could walk
in careful steps
to avoid great falls