To say anything is to ruin the pristine image that I think that you have of me. Do you wish to know that I am angry and sad and mean by turn? Do you wish to know that I can be radically jealous, but will avoid vindictiveness at all costs? Only to be dimly aware that my frustration slides out of me sideways, instead of straight on, like the words in a verse?
To hide anything feels like betrayal, and yet to reveal me betrays me.