You would pluck out the heart of my mystery.

Like a deft surgeon of secrets, you could extract mine from me, painlessly. So fast, so precise – you knew right where to make the incision and how to sew me back up. Never before had I felt so understood. You had every mystery in hand.

It’s different now. Maybe you have extracted all the mysteries there were. Maybe you stopped wondering what my secrets were or what I was thinking. So in the intervening years, I’ve grown quite a few new secrets and mysteries. There’s a world in me now that you don’t understand and don’t seem to want to. I could pluck them out myself – but what would be the point? I let the mystery grow, like moss on a stone, expanding on the inside – unseen, unknown and well hidden.


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