It seems odd to me how after having spent so much time together, that we could be such strangers in the end. All that I’d shared about the nuances of who I am, over the years, you never took notice of. I wonder if you’ll remember the smell of my hair or the texture of my skin – its color and freckled bumps. Will you remember what made me smile and what made me weep… what touched my soul? Will you remember my stories… the ones that made me who I am? The molestations and the rape and the broken relationships and the drugs? Will you remember my relentless search for who I am… searching for the soul within the body you made love to at first and then later fucked, once you didn’t find me worthy of your love? Will you remember your own stories of who I was, the ones deduced as though a story could be understood simply by looking at the dust jacket of a book? The Reader’s Digest condensed version, abbreviated into what my relevant parts are, with you as editor.
Today, as I write this, I will allow myself to indulge in self-pity for a moment or two. It proves that I am still human, I suppose. I weep for all of the times I’ve shared parts of myself that were not cherished… were not even acknowledged. I weep for the sorrow I feel at the realization that I may never trust another with all that I have shared of myself with you. And what a waste it has been… the little pieces of me dropped into the palm of your hand so trustingly, set aside without being examined or treasured… so much junk, cluttering up your space.