Fear

I am afraid also, i think, of my irritation at my friend. My spite. The fight part. The fight part that responds to their vulnerability and authenticity - or? Not that? Their effort. Their restriction of what they say to be palatable. Their editing. Their masking.

It reminds me of mine. I think. I think mine reminds mum of hers.

And in those reflections everything gets a little distorted.

Mostly by the shame. I am ashamed of the masking. Ashamed of the veneer and control. I fear it makes me less of a person. Less real. Less solid. I fear that the I that fears will evaporate or fragment in favour of being liked. Needed. Valuable. I fear that I will evaporate them in turn.

My written voice itches on my throat. It rankles.