Thursday, April 7

Filthy Fictions

You would always get so angry at me for never really being here.

Be here, you'd say. Be in this moment. With me. Feel my hand in yours. Feel it. It's real. I'm real.

You'd give anything for me to believe that. And I know it's hard for me to admit when I'm wrong, but it's damn near impossible for me to admit that you're right. So, I won't.

I'm learning to be present because I want to love better, because I want to love someone in ways that I couldn't love you. Bestie says I should regret you. Should think you a mistake. Should shake you off and bite the dust. But I carry you with me everywhere--in my work, in my words, in the eyes of a new lover. You have allowed me to disorientate to reorientate. The things you said then are only starting to make sense now and I wonder how much more I missed, hadn't listened to, overlooked and neglected. You were the problem, but so was I.

It's because of you that I can even contemplate being present. Fuck, I should send you a fruit basket. But what a petty exchange for your broken heart, which I fumbled around with my clumsy hands. I was never careful enough, you said. Too reckless. Too careless. A girl just starting to grow out of being spoiled her whole life.



I could send you a bloody ear, but you never liked the grand gesture.

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