Unhidden
he’s got espresso in his blood,
and other people’s betrayals under his nails…
a grime that laughs at soap...
he is feral…
rips his toenails like deadlines,
bites off his fingernails like confession,
wears his socks until they surrender into holes,
changes his underpants once a month
like it’s a lunar calendar
and shame is optional.
sometimes he drops an unfiltered joke,
then pays for it
with those half-apologetic eyes.
inside his chest:
a magnificent theater…
voices weaving backstage…
one smooth,
one uncouth,
a religious Black woman raising hell,
and a small, claustrophobic kid under the seats,
knees to his ribs,
counting doorways,
counting breaths.
he never shows the whole cast.
because he knows
people say they want truth
the way they want storms…
but only until the roof starts moving.
anxiety squats on him
like a landlord with a thick neck,
collecting rent as panicked breaths,
evicting sleep,
sending him to Xanax-prayers
and siren-heart nights.
and then there’s me…
polished like a trophy in a glass case,
nails perfect, posture perfect,
a smile trained by professionals
and approved by a committee.
i move through rooms
like nothing has ever bruised me.
but here’s what nobody sees:
behind the lacquer
i’m a cathedral on fire…
desires stacked like books
no one’s allowed to touch,
a riot of color
pressed under a clean blouse,
a private language
i only speak in my head
when the door clicks shut
and the world can’t interrupt.
we meet…
uncertain,
not knowing where any of this is headed,
the kind of night
that doesn’t flatter anyone,
so it tells the truth.
i look at his chaos
like gasoline watching a match.
he tries to charm me,
but before he knows it
one voice trips him,
and i see the wreck unfold:
one says run,
one says stay,
and the kid in him whispers, too much.
i watch him wrestle ghosts
in private.
the way his smile stutters,
the way his shoulders rise
like he’s bracing for impact.
and i lean in…
close enough to hear
what he’s trying not to say.
finally, one night,
he stops editing.
hands me the knife-story…
the betrayals--small and large,
the dog his ex made him give back,
the ritual of the double-locked door,
checked, rechecked,
until his fingers forget
what “safe” even feels like.
then he lets the whole orchestra loose…
characters on his tongue:
hilarious, ridiculous, uncensored…
the kind that would get him
“pulled aside,”
the kind that would get him
uninvited.
he waits for me to flinch.
he thinks: now she’ll run,
and this time
she won’t come back.
i don’t flinch.
instead, i exhale
like i’ve been drowning politely
for years.
the lacquered smile cracks…
ice on a river…
and underneath
a wild grin arrives,
hungry for air.
i start spilling color:
laughter. desire. teeth.
the life i kept boxed up
like fireworks in a closet…
afraid of the noise,
afraid of the light.
there’s no plan to fix me.
and he’s not reaching to be rescued.
he just stays…
wounded, loud, honest,
finally unhidden.
and i open up.
and he learns
being “too much”
is only a crime
with the wrong witness.
some nights the landlord returns,
pounding on his ribs.
i put my hand on his chest
and whisper:
hold on.
and the storm inside him
abates into weather.
and me?
all those locked-room colors…
i open the windows.
they pour out like morning,
filling the street,
touching everything…
and nothing in me
needs permission anymore.
© Sreedhari Desai