i liked to think of you 

as one of those russian nesting dolls - 

matryoshka dolls, my historian of a 

grandmother insisted they were called.

i liked to think of your secrets

as all the other, smaller dolls,

building up in thin coats of wood,

because after all, a matryoshka

doll is not one without the others.

i liked to entertain myself with your layers,

trying to find the courage to dig up the one

beneath that one and that one

but i have to realize that

you are not a matryoshka doll

because you are made of skin and love from your mother,

not dead trees with eyes painted on

and you have depth and character and limitations

and your smallest doll is what i see at first.

your biggest one's at your core.

i liked to think of you as a game - 

a child's game - how long will i be able to 

ignore all your other, intriguing layers?

how long until you finally break because you 

don't like being torn down, then built up,

and then demolished again? how many dolls do you

have stacked up? what happens when i 

get 

to the

last one?