Like ice, nine tenths out of sight.
On the surface: I’m chattering on about yarn colours, trading inane smut on a facebook thread, howling with laughter over a series of texts on seventies interior design.
All of these are me. The real me. Just not the whole of me.
What lies beneath is the whirling swirling shame of the secret. It’s like a fairy tale. Saying the words reduces their power. I know this to be true. But like a bewitched maiden in the old tales, I am struck dumb; there are words I can never voice. I would choke before they passed my lips.
Writing is easier than speech. Words can be typed on a screen, and the send button pressed to set them free. I skirt around the edges for a long time. Too long. But there is no gentle phrasing, no sugar coating. It feels like lobbing a grenade and running.
The secret is shared. I am still me.
I lie in bed, shivering with the kind of deep inside cold that no hot water bottle can fix.
Seals sing me to sleep.