Forgivable Myth

I have so many dead drafts that, honestly, if I cobbled them together no one would be much the wiser and I would have my post.

I feel so disconnected from my own language.  I think something about this relationship is draining something integral to me which is strange because this relationship seems to hinge on a whim.

It is, like all other things have been, half-imagination, half-things that cannot be held firm in thought without the charge of empirical evidence to tether them to my story of myself.  I have papers which read the word love.  I have rose oil.  I have hearts.  I have a ream of daily calls logged in a cell phone.  I have a necklace.  I have stories half-written in fonts I do not use.  I have receipts for packages sent away, gladly, to a home I’ve never visited.  I feel so defensive about it.   Like I am claiming the traumas incurred by the proverbial girlfriend in Canada that I may as well have just made up for all anyone gives a damn around me about it.

I am not going mad.

I am trying so hard to be tender and moral and good.  But my frustration, my endless frustration, is that I have given up so much of my life to promises nobody ever asked me to make and I have made crystalline, unimpeachable choices that nobody would find fair, but which people have taken because it caused them no bother to take my loyalty, my  black ink ledger of intentions and actions.  Debts I claim but can never collect, credits I’m owed but can never recover.

He says, kindly, amongst a spate of inert, complicated statements about this project that draws us together, that I adore him.  I don’t argue.  I think in that moment I might.  For no other reason except that I do.  He says he’ll call when I’m home, I say I’m not sure when that will be tonight, but tomorrow, yes.  And tomorrow comes and goes.  We have some awkward small talk in text form.  A few pictures exchanged that don’t let me get back to the conversation I keep trying to have:  “What are we?  Where are we? What about us?”  The one that keeps dying on “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”

I read old posts and find such comfort there that I want to reach back in time, come back to this room, this bed, or wherever I was when I wrote those hopeful and incendiary words and kiss myself tenderly on the top of the end, a hand on either side of my face.  I want to acknowledge the effort, the mind, the willingness to just sit here until something broke loose.  Those days that I can now, like my papers that read love, my untold mountainous hoard of compliments that did not feel like lies, a few particular memories that are seared into me, prove that I am not inventing it all from scratch.

There are a few notes of reality in the formula that keep it from flying out of our hands, going like treacle, being a myth you can forgive and free yourself from.

I

 

 

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