All my mistakes have one thing in common. Me.
I made a house out of human skin. The neighbors didn’t seem to care until spring came and the house began to decompose. Gary next door made off-handed comments about what a poor handyman I am and smirked whenever he saw me trying to hold together the walls with new patches of skin. I couldn’t wait to use him to fix my leaky roof. I couldn’t wait to see if he could fix things as well as he always said he could.
I’m leaving you and I love you and those are two separate things.
I held lights up to your eyes until you went blind, and I sweetly read to you by your bedside. I guided you around the house, arm in arm. I described people passing by to you. My words and touch and patience became your new eyesight, and I think you would have fallen in love with me if you hadn’t seen how I ugly I am before I burned the vision out of your eyes.
If we could, we’d one day say, “Earth was pretty good overall… right up until the part where we blew it all up.”
All the worst moments of your life happened or will happen with me.
We knew what would happen once we stopped screaming, so we kept screaming. We admitted all the awful things we did. We pointed out each other’s flaws. We pushed towards that inevitable end mercilessly and too afraid to stop. We didn’t want to lose each other, but we had no choice. So we screamed to make it last just a little bit longer even if it made us feel worse.
We don’t have to try so hard to be good people. It’s not selfish to be happy even if other people are unhappy. It’s not selfish to do nothing sometimes.
Let’s see you get over me when you can’t get away from me. Forget the mores. The taboos. The societal excommunication. This is why conjoined twins should never date. We’re stuck together — quite literally.
We traded secrets under the interrogative afternoon sun. It broke my heart to see you grimace at the terrible things I’ve done. It broke my heart, but I kept sharing until there was nothing left to say. You blushed when telling any of your secrets — so small and trite in comparison, they were barely secrets at all.