I am a leaky faucet of sharing

Someone was described to me as never having opened up to anyone in his life, and I felt like I could identify, but that's blatantly untrue. I do nothing but open wider and wider to let the whole world in. I spill my guts and all that is concealed is the internal order of it all, lost in the letting-out.

I act on the perhaps-faulty idea(l) that the sharing of an accurate self-depiction would feel like success.

If it's true, I'm not afraid to say it about myself. I can't help the truth. I'm more afraid of what I say being somehow provably untrue.

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