Self Injury Awareness Day.

March 1 2013.

Wear orange to support it or write LOVE on your wrists!

More info here.

For a young boy: this is how I see you.

Curious half hidden smiles, bashful laughter and shy touches.

Bright eyes, disillusioned laughter, gentle hands.

Too much love in a cruel world, a touch of cynicism and contradictory naivety.

Fair skin, lean and lanky, lips that are full yet innocent in their sensuality.

Graceful movements, the hands of a musician, the voice of a breathy fog.

Startled chuckles, soft conversations, a mirror held to a nicer portion of the world.

Sensitive to undercurrents, sensibly grounded and strong arms to cradle.

(I will always love the boy you are and the man you will become.)

It struck me.

The problem with teenage me is that I was unconsciously attempting to be the younger version of Lisbeth Salander.

Noun. The state or condition of being free from being observed or disturbed by other people.

Too many people watch this space, waiting for the politically correct humanist Zarrah to slip.

Too many people are able to access this, to gain considerable insight into my mental processes.

Too many people who may know me or not.

I crave intimacy. Privacy.

I'm thinking of setting up a private blog just for my thoughts. Or even an anonymous one.

If you were to love me...

You would need to know that:

• I am a scrawling mess of spilled thoughts and fragments of memories. Rarely will I ever be able to express myself with eloquence let alone sense.
• Sometimes, I share the things that go through my mind. More often than not, I won't.
• I will resist falling in love with you (as opposed to loving you, which I will do very well).
• If I casually mention "I have never told anyone this before", I've entrusted into your care something that I never found the courage to tell any other person.
• There will be moments (hours, days, maybe for longer) when I wish to be alone. Please respect that.

And if I were to love you too? I wonder.