Last night I realized that I ask people the most personal questions
in an attempt to know their depths in a hurry rather than allowing the answers to flow naturally.
I rarely make it underneath the skin.
"What's your middle name" followed by "Have you ever been in love" and
"What was your SAT score?" "Favourite subject?" "Favourite way to hurt yourself?"
Margaret after my great grandmother, but if we're being honest I'd say it were April
and I once fell in love with a man whose eyes I only met for a second on the train
while I was dreading making my way home again only to be scolded for not trying.
I've been scored on how much sweat I'd let out of my pores just to reach the tip top of
your spine, how early I could fall asleep and how many scars you remember me telling about.
The notebook my mother bought me for math is green and filled with fragments of
seventh grade, nail polish and the hope of a small room with someone who'd like to kiss
every single one of my fingers as I count every one of their hairs and eventually,
as we talk about family and falling off swings, we come across the father of your father
whose name is right between your first and last.
Once I've scratched the surface, I stay if I see red.