ceramix

Little things.

Those things that no one else focuses and fixates on.  When asked if I know some individual, I question:

“Is she the one with her inner ear lobe pierced?”

And the response is something along the lines of:

“Well, I never really looked.”

Other times, I ask,

“Is she the one with the bad posture?”

“Is he the one always biting his lip?”

Perhaps it is a result of my own vast insecurities that causes me to analyze everything that saunters into my view.  When you held my hand and I pulled away, you asked

“What’s wrong?” and I mumble:

“Scars.”

You hadn’t even noticed the marks on my hand until I deliberately brought it up,

“Just because you can’t see my scars, doesn’t mean I don’t have them,” you say.

But I don’t believe you. Seeing is believing for me.

If I don’t see your insecurities, I come to think that I am the only one.

So I ask, 

“Oh, does her voice go up at the end of a sentence in a questioning tone even if it isn’t a question she is asking?”

“Does she tap her feet nervously when she’s around you?”

Little things.

Little ticks.

Or shall we call them little ‘quirks’?

Everyone possesses them, but some are better at concealing them than others.