7.14b

Sometimes, I fantasize about someone finding my diary and devouring the pages, savaging their buttery tone, drinking my years like claret, nourished by my secretive self. What if you were to find and read me, my unwalled self? You would find it too full of gristle, too poorly seasoned, too dishonest. I fantasize about it, so I am not willing to reveal too much of myself in it. I am curiously more open in my personal conversations than I am with myself. Alas, I am no five-course dinner, but a pie in a diner window, glossy, fake, and rotating.