You say that you want to know who I am.  You want to know where I’ve been, what I feel, and what my reasons are.  Do I think I’m justified?  Am I right?  What makes me do the things I do.

You ask me these things, earnestly.  As if the answers are easy, simple.  As if I have the power to make you believe what I feel, instead of what you see.  As if I have the ability to convince you that I am some kind of brilliant angel: perfect and without flaws, as if I’ve never stolen, or drank, or broke somebody’s heart.  That’s really what you want, isn’t it?  You want me heaved inside the lines, even if I don’t quite fit.  Even if it kills me, but in such a way that I keep on living.  That would be easier for you to handle, I know.  If I were five-by-five and easy to convince of, well, anything.

Instead, you ask me where I’ve been.  You ask me what I feel.  You ask me what I could possibly want out of life, out of love, out of the way I give my heart—and, more importantly, who I’ve given it to.  The look on your face seems inviting enough, even though I’ve seen this scene before, and I know that Iago could not do it better.  You are not what you are.

Then again, neither am I, right?

You say that you want to know me, but you don’t.  Not really.  Not if it’s messy.  Not if I’m messy.  At the end of the time, you see me, but you don’t see me.  Even though I’m standing here, even though I’ve told you every word of this fable.  I’ve been honest.  I’ve told the truth.  And yet, it’s not enough.  The questions turn to outrage.  The allies turn their faces away.  And for a brief moment I feel what you must feel: I cannot recognize you at all.  It would destroy me, if I hadn’t already seen it coming.

Yes, I noticed the contempt in your eyes.  The judgment.  The accusation.  There is no compassion, no mercy, no live-and-let-live reprieve.  There’s just you, asking me things you have no right to ask.

And I answer out of respect.  Loyalty, perhaps.  Most likely, it’s out of some deep-seated need for your approval.  I know that I don’t have that.  I know that I never will.  And I know that you don’t really want to know me, if I’m cracked on the insides, bleeding scarlet, and singing with a siren’s grace.

But that’s not the worst of it.  The worst is that you ask me to change.  To come to my senses.  What you really mean is that you want me to see things your way.  You want me to fall in line, smile pretty, and try not to upset the applecart.  What I want, feel, or need doesn’t matter.  Or, as you might say, it shouldn’t.  Not in this case, where the good men have taken sides, leaving all the villains out to play.

If I changed, now, it wouldn’t be true.  If I gave in, and gave up, it would be a lie.  It might be the safe thing, the easy thing, and the path without resistance—but it would not be because I thought it was right.  No, it would just be because I’m tired of fighting.  And God knows, I am. 

But I’m also tired of living my life based on someone else’s expectations.  I've played by the rules for so long that I foolishly thought that they were my own.  I didn't know enough to understand why that's so very wrong.  And now I do.  I know more than you can imagine, even if I can't put it into words. 

I know that reason has no place in love.  I know that love is not always patient and kind.  I know that the right thing can be the wrong thing, and the wrong thing can seem like a dream.  I know what it is to make a mistake, cry about it, and then make it again.  I know what it's like to hurt right down to my soul, until there are dirges in my eyes and tears at the tips of my fingers.  I know what it's like to trust when it isn't warranted, to kick myself for past wrongs, and to lie about it later.  I know why people fall into the shadows, forget how to love, and sneer at the wreck of their own hopes.  I know what it's like to crawl out of darkness, to smile when there is no reason to, and to help someone simply because I can.  I know what it's like to believe in someone when no one else does.  I know how to see the good, even if I have to tilt my head, squint my eyes, and hold my breath.

And yes, I also know that disapproval is a difficult mantel to bear. But I'll bear it if I have to, if you leave me no other choice.  And yes, I understand that this choice is up to you, that there are things I cannot control: opinions, the weather, my sense of purpose, and the consequences of living life a little sideways.

These are my truths, such as they are.  Take them or leave them--but recognize the spirit in which you found them.