I play off my unwillingness to be completely honest as a sickness. It's some overused sympathy extractor, and you'll work to convince yourself that I'm trying, always trying. You think you know more about me than anyone else and that some day the words will start to roll out of my mouth and you'll be there to help me collect them from the floor and we'll put them together into sentences that will reveal hiddent truths to us both. You will believe the words when they come, and maybe I will too.
But I'll be watching to see what my words grow into. I'll mother them through childhood and I'll worry about them as teenagers as they break the promises I made. In the end, I will have to let go and hope they become at least an inkling of what I had in head when I let them leave my tongue.
They never are.
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