I have come to realize that above all right now my subconscious linger, my obscure source of bitchiness is because I am afraid. I am afraid. I am afraid of myself. I am afraid I’m going to fuck up everything that is meaningful to me. I am afraid of my dreams and “talents.” I am wondering when people see me do they see an artist? A writer? An intelligent person? Do they ever just see Annika? Do they ever like that I am so absent-minded? That I leave strange objects like phones in refrigerators and go looking for my lost wallet in trashbins at midnight because I think I threw it away with my fast food tray? Or when I say something that my eyes are pleading and apologizing and saying more than my lips could ever utter? Do they notice why I do the things I do? Or do they just see “talents,” potential? Most people I have noticed wrote in my yearbook that they could always say “they knew Annika before she was famous.” I can’t remember how many times people have said that to me. I don’t want “to be famous.” Do they see this burning desire this hollow need in my gut, this thing I am trying so hard to find or really bring out in myself much more than words on paper or paint on canvas? This thing I could never describe …

I am afraid mostly of myself. And I know I am afraid, dear Wesley, of what you see in me. Of what the mirror shows me, this starved, hungry look. I am wondering do you know I wouldn’t give it up for anyone. Not even you. I am wondering do you see this desire lancing across my pupils, cutting me open. For you, dear, I would give the knife, but never the power to reach inside.