Not what you say but what you do.
This is what he thinks of me. I am not the nasty girl I imagine myself, full of hate and anger and passion. Instead I am embodied. I am the solid hard worker, the loyal friend and lover, the guilt driven supporter of the underprivileged. I am a noble doormat. He strips me of all my fire and erratic energy with one sentence. He takes away my anger and aggression, my sharp tongue and my sharper wall against the world with all it's embedded spines and broken glass and electric charge. Why would he love me then this way? This plodding slug, all sugar and spice. He only sees the half of it, which is probably the way it should be.
I have shown the dark side of myself to a select few, the cold ugly place all slippery with thoughts of hurt and hurting. I have chased these few away from the solid warm glow of my love for them. I have extinguished my own love with a dousing of unrestrained honesty.
I don't trust what you say, he tells me. Most people are full of shit. You are full of shit.
So I haul myself back onto his pedestal where all my most polite aspects are turned towards your view. He doesn't read vaginas and I now know why. He does not want the truth of me to tarnish his image of a girl he loves.
In act I am a saint. I support, I love, I am kind, I will never let you down.
But listen to what I say. There is another story that I am frightened to play out. This is a cautionary tail. Now you have been warned.