I am a Russian stacking doll. With personality inside personality. Some people pass me in the hallways and only see the outside. They see the least intricate, the least impressive. They assume that the other dolls inside me are the same. Some people get to see a little deeper. They crack open my first layer to reveal my next layer. They don’t have the patience to go on. They see how my next layer isn’t sparkles and jewels. They get bored. Then there are the people who saw open that tightly closed, hardly ever opened layer to see more and more of me. They are amazed. It all makes sense. My first layer, next, next, next. It tells the story of me. They love it. Then there are my favorite people. The people that don’t crack me open. They wish with everything that they could. They know. They know that inside of my first layer is stunning. They want it. They don’t think they are worth it. They are my favorite. I usually find them. I try to. When I do I show them the inside. It is just as magnificent as they hoped, wished, knew. Then, I give it to them. I break off a little piece of my last layer and I give it to them. To keep. To hold carefully and never let go. They cherish it. Admire it. And all I ask is that they give me some of them in return. This, is love.