We taught ourselves denial.

We have emigrated. We are covered in a  skinned frame of bone and muscle. Covered in a landscape of the native born.

Refuges not amongst, but without. So far down the inside we have lost touch with the we of before. The we that is now you but not us.


Inside of the inside, there is more of a parallel then you might imagine, though you never would.

We are the imperfect actors, attempting the part of the native born, in this stream of traffic and noise. We mimic. We cover ourselves with evidence of our surroundings.

We drop hints. We leave a trail. We blend the best we can. We hide behind a shell of walls and windows. Protected by our eye contact. Dependent on the myopic.
 We are self-taught in the art of denial so we can survive in a foreign land. 

Me? It doesn't take much. Every fraud has a tell.

I flinched when you touched me.