A Litany of Things I am not Telling You, Out of Order
I have a bad feeling about all of this. I have a question with a devastating hypothetical inside of it. I once had a long list of questions for you, but I answered them myself. I am the one you are losing, remember? I am not a very good person, but I keep saying I am trying. I want to be let in, I said looking at your diaphragm. I used to imagine: [ ] I am making an artform of my own heartache as an enviable talent. I am starting to adore my own unlikely need. I am making something millable out of this, I am. I could mill a life so full, there's no room for you anymore. I am milling around in the quiet space you left, feeling fragile and raw. I am starting to like it. I used to be yours; now I am mine. My dear, my darling, my dark cloud. I have no rules or secrets anymore. I am sure you know by now: you cannot possess a thunderstorm or bring one back from the dead. I was your first full stop, wasn't I? Wasn't I? I don't know anything for sure anymore. I don't want to haunt you anymore. I never said I would keep searching until I found you. I don't tell you what I'm thinking anymore. I keep ripping pages out of my notebook. I am not eating all my meals anymore. I never said I would. Okay, I did. I am making small but meaningful improvements. I am starting not to love you anymore. I still think of how beautiful you are, how your face fits your face. Fits the palms of my hands. I don't tell you everything I am thinking anymore. I am not a nostalgic person. I try to focus on the things I dislike about you. I love you less and less. I am erasing you, slowly. I used to miss you all the time. I used to want to talk to you even when I was talking to you. I finally realized it was the compass that was broken, it just took a long time. I finally realized the map wasn't even right, and anyway I can't read maps. I touch my own sweet and nervous spine now. I will still be the death of you. I would do it all again, but I wish I wouldn't. I don't feel like a ghost. I am not a ghost. I know you'll be okay without me, but not the same. I am learning to forget as a self-defense mechanism. I tore your pages out of my diary and stopped writing your name. "Write down everything and of course you'll remember things you wish you didn't," I read somewhere. Even if you never read this, you'll still feel it. I suspect you will grow to miss me terribly. When it's over (and it's almost over, I promise) just know I meant everything I ever said to you, even if I wish I didn't. I am taking nothing back, even if I wish I could. I would do it all again, even if I wish I wouldn't.