they know

i walk down the stairs from class. i am very cold, icy even, though the heater's on. my lecturer passes me. he gives me the absent minded 'you're in my class, but i can't quite remember your name' smile. then he pauses and looks back. his smile wavers. i lock my eyes ahead.

he knows.

i hate the opening up of myself to others. and even more, i hate the way they talk - unwrapping me like a present, trying to find what's underneath.

give up. you won't see me, no matter how small the russian doll gets, no matter how many layers are peeled back.

i am locked away in the land of the hundred year winter and you can't find me here.