Photographs

Photographs scattered the floor, myriad of moments. Emotions captured and showcased. Memories accessible at a glance.

Somehow it all rang hollow to me, echoing emptiness.

"What's your vice?" he asked, his voice like velvet, soft and lilting.

I try my hardest to meet his gaze and convey some form of truth from behind my eyelashes caked with days-old mascara, dust and dried tears.

"You tell me," I answered.

His beautiful face fell, disappointment clearly etched onto his immaculate features. "Don't you think it's time you speak without political influences? Just drop all the vague ambiguities and indecisiveness and show me who you really are. Just show me who you are, baby." He was pleading, hurt and hopeful.

Thoughts embraced my mind in a storm of images, stories and justifications following the waves undulating within my selective memory. I have hidden away for so long. Avoding the light of truth, diclosing my imperfections under a cover of lies, fallacies and illusions. I do not know who I am, who I really am. And it's all on me. I cannot show him anything that even remotely resembled myself. The extravagant masks I've donned for so long have become like a second skin to me, clinging stubbornly to portray the shit that I am in a flattering manner.

"I'm sorry," I gasped.

And I fled.