Hidden

The real me likes to hide. 

I wish she wouldn't, but she feels uncomfortable at times, mostly around new people.  There's something about them that forces her to retreat.  But she's there.

She loves to read, and often judges a book by it's shape.

She's fascinated by ripples in water and the flashing scales of any fish.

She loves the colors green and blue, but detests the color pink. 

She often doesn't know what to do with her hands, and sometimes her face can't seem to relax. 

Sometimes she stutters when she's nervous.

On bad days she avoids mirrors, but most days she doesn't let their taunting bother her.

She likes to smile, and sometimes smiles for no good reason.

She wishes she could climb up trees, and she prefers pens over pencils. 

She loves a good rainstorm, but only when it's warm and accompanied by flashes of light and rages of sound.  And when she hears that first roar of thunder, she grabs a book and finds a nook by a window.

She likes to dance, even though she isn't very good.

She's kind and dependable, and surprisingly talkative. 

She's easily amused, and doesn't need a lot to have fun.  And when she ventures out of her fear, she's fun to be with. 

She only likes to paint her toenails, not her fingernails. 

Her favorite place to be is in a small crevice of salty rocks, so close to the sea that she can taste it and feel the spray of waves as they crash.

She doesn't mind being alone sometimes, but she likes to be with people too.

She drips her emotions on paper and when she bleeds, it comes out as ink.

Sometimes she lets her quiet twin take over.  But sometimes her courage gets the best of her and she kicks the quiet one out.  And then she finally comes up for air, and wonders why she ever stayed hidden for so long.