Not even you know what it’s like to be me. You try, to the extent that you believe you’ve succeeded sometimes, but you haven’t managed it. It’s not your fault – nobody can truly get inside somebody else’s head.
I like to pretend I’m in yours sometimes – a mind full of trivia from Heat magazine, the scent of pink gel pens, and the sound of the constant message alert of your mobile phone. The way you tap your long fingernails nervously on the table when you’re talking to me.
But – no.
Not even I know what it’s like to be you.