No. We do not expose the deepest of our wounds. Not to our mothers because we cannot stand the sight of our mothers bleeding in torment. Not to our lovers, more certainly, because our love for them never overpowers our shame, our pride.
These wounds - sometimes an embarrassing moment locked somewhere in childhood memory, sometimes a depressing mistake that makes us frown in suffocating agony, sometimes a schoolteacher’s curse – have rendered us poorer in life and much, much weaker.
And these moments, these mistakes, these defeats, die with us unsaid. As if they too are condemned to a lifetime of loneliness, within us.
