Particularly mine, a life that has been lived in bits & pieces for those who could stomach them accordingly. One fragment for him. One for her. Two for the random stranger from Tennessee.
Living this way takes its toll. Before you know it you've(more) forgotten who knows what version of you and all you can remember is that no one really knows everything, & that is a unique brand of alienation and loneliness that I could never articulate in 3000 words, let alone 300.
Occasionally we're fortunate enough to meet someone that not only can't accept a customized approach, but demands more. Maybe that's more unfortunate than anything, because the loss of that quiet refuge is profound in such a way that it inevitably dissolves a few of the layers that held you together enough to get through the rest of it. I don't even remember what "it" is anymore.
Even though I'm grappling to accept the necessity of a life constantly looped in "buffering" mode, at least I get the small satisfaction of knowing that I'm just too damn complex for simplicity. Right? Ugh. Can you ever really lie to yourself about anything?
I could never lie to you. You always knew. How did you always know? I want to think you're laying on those fucking ugly plaid sheets right now and somewhere there is a tiny hint of my perfume that will remind you that you still know. I hope you find the pair of earrings I left in that cabinet with the records so you'd think about me after I was gone. I hope you notice the heart I drew with my finger on that dusty pair of boots in your closet.