I am not the first person you have loved.
Though pretending would be easy; you are not the first person I have looked upon with a mind full of always and a mouth uttering promises I don't know that I can keep.
Our armor, held together by scars issued by the lies of those before, weakens.
Voiceless words erect the wall between us.
I want to whisper them in your bed.
Scream them in your kitchen.
Cry them in your bathroom.
Celebrate them in your arms.
Instead I chew them.
Cutting them to pieces.
Gnawing them endlessly.
Ignoring the bitter taste they leave on my tongue begging to be spit at your feet.
Their flavor lingers on the lips of the man I kiss each night.
Monday, December 01, 2014
"He has really changed."
My initial thought is "That's certainly a good thing."
I realize the snarkiness of that, but forgive me if I don't care.
He needed to change. Desperately.
But, of course, that's only my opinion. And who am I to judge?
"He stayed with us for about a year and a half when he came back to get his papers in order."
Your poor wife. An entire 18-month span with that asshole?
What was she punishing herself for? And why were you punishing her?
He apparently hasn't changed too awfully much to infringe on your family in such a way.
He always did stretch the limits of friendship far beyond their bonds.
"Jeff has moved back to Canada from the US and is living in Calgary for the moment."
At least he's no longer a blight in my country. Though he's entirely too close for comfort.
Last I knew, he was in Las Vegas. It's been well over 10 years. Goodness, more like 13.
Where does the time go?
I do my best to be pleasant in my response. I admit my best is rarely good enough.
"It is difficult to glean your tone in written words. Do you find the change in Jeff to be a good one or a bad one? I trust you will forgive my negative outlook on this particular subject since Jeff loathed me beyond all words."
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
"You're doing it again."
Her text wasn't a statement, but a pointed question meant to dig into my side until I responded with something socially acceptable but honest, too.
I should have ignored the missive entirely. Providing any response was opening a door, but my hand turned the knob against its' will.
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Christ, you're so full of shit. You want to act like you don't know what I'm talking about,fine. But Brent saw you at lunch the other day and you should be lucky he called me and not your husband."
If I had any self preservation instincts, I would explain myself. I would arrange drinks after work and let the dirty secrets flow with the overpriced red of her choice.
"Tell Brent to call me about my lunch choices so as not to inconvenience you in the future."
But my instincts for self preservation have always been undervalued. Much like my friendships.