Peeling charred pieces of skin from my hand.
I felt no revulsion.
Perhaps I'll save them.
Wrap them in virgin paper.

There's need. To be honest, to be soft. I don't understand. I have intelligent, understanding, intimate friends. They would lend an ear if I asked. Why don't I? Am I meant to be a loner? By choice, by circumstance, by socialization?
I wonder if people have conflict regarding what they want to be...and what they want to be known as.