Sometimes I walk along the edge of my truth. Keeping just enough of myself hidden to remain a mystery. So that I’m asking questions, like: Do I really want to know her? Will I like what I see? Can she live up to all those silly expectations inside of me? Sometimes I forget myself. And I’m suddenly comfortable in my own skin. So I’m saying things, like: Doesn’t matter what they think of me. Know what I want and what I’d like to see. There is no good reason to not just let it be.