dear x: i knew you were trouble

dear x,

i lied about pretty much everything. except my name. and that i live in boise. i am writing you this love letter to come clean.

i lied when i said i don't feel things. when you called me a sad little girl, the truth of your insult reverberated among my rib cage. when you threw your head back and laughed at my request for the truth about the thin blond hairs on your bathroom floor, my skull buzzed with nerves and rage.

i lied when i said that relationships are too much work. bad ones definitely are; i became sick with paranoia that you existed in a different world without me-- one with her. one where you talk about prufock & the scarlet letter with me-- and one where you fall asleep next to a girl who still posts pictures of you on facebook with clever captions and inside jokes.

i lied, x, about liking your paris hilton poem. i lied about finding your inability to choose a first name endearing. i lied about preferring to be alone-- i would have loved to feel your fingers tapping a beat to some indie song on my thigh as we watched a movie on my loveseat and drank JD straight from the bottle.

i lied about needing you. i lied when i implied "go away" was synonymous with "i don't care."

the tragedy of it all, x, is that i lied then and still think about it. but you, you lied then and lied so well that i can't tell the difference anymore between his sincerity and his omissions-- because you let me blur that line of reality for myself.

and i am so sorry.

or is that a lie too?

love,
a.

and the saddest fear comes creeping in

that you never loved me

or her

or anyone

or anything