Freckles lie.

I used to love being held, but now each embrace leaves me anxious. I am waiting for the seconds to span faster; not wanting to study a new face.  Staring at strange eyes peering back and not knowing what they see; the iris a façade, while pupils focus in on the countless freckles across my cheeks, oh so many, still unbeknownst to me. 

I pull away abruptly.  Trying to find some excuse to leave, but you’ve seen my kind before, the ones who memorize each room if only for the door.  You’re anticipating, whispering: "it’s alright" to the lobe of my ear, as though it’s exactly what you think I want to hear. Funny thing about that is you don’t know what “it” is. You’re assuming you know exactly what I need– like the freckles on my face somehow told on me, like the taste of my neck was that revealing.  Before you fake some consolation both my feet are on the floor, my keys are in my hand, I’m swiftly out the door.

The smell of midnight on an open city road, the sound of my engine roar…I leave the quiet alone, my sobbing breaking the silence; my stream of tears soaking the dashboard.

Oh what is it to be alone?

My empty apartment doesn’t speak such silly things – the artwork on my walls don’t try to console me and so I lean into them, my arms around my legs, breathe in deep and fall asleep there to awaken by the sun pouring in.  I’m still on the floor, now kneeling, giving thanks for awakening to the Sun’s warm embrace and not some stranger who thinks he knows my face.