Lonely sort of creature
I’ve never quite gotten used to the foreign feeling of not being alone. I may move slow, but it doesn’t mean i’m going away. It just might take a while for me to reach that level where I can stand at ease, surrounded by social conveniences and emotional expectations I could never quite fulfill. But I’ll never walk past you. The very thought seems ludicrous. And yet, with all my words (that don’t seem to convey this painful emotion, but still…), i can’t find a way to let you know. That kind of hurts, it kind of burns and cuts and wears away at things that are too worn down as it is. And I resort to foreign languages with simpler words, cleaner meanings, without the endless emotional and cultural baggage memory has loaded upon our mother tongue. And so I sully my ideals, but I refuse to admit to defeat. I’ll just rethink this war strategy of mine and devise some way to make-believe I meant for this to happen all along. In the end, what’s the point of keeping this loser’s badge in self-expression? It’s way too easy to pretend, to play along with faith and hazard and your every hard-strained whim.
You know, I even get attached to my cellphones. My cat is the (often impatient) recipient of many a bout of maternal instincts. I keep dresses for years, out-of-fashion or too small, because I used to wear them and they’re drenched with parts of myself, bits of existence that define who i was, which leads directly to who I am now. Same goes for you: there’s bit of me inside yourself. I doubt that you could sort them out, they’re not quite obvious, but more like a part of your person, that exists in its current state partly due to my presence in your life. That would make this true both ways, then: there’s pieces of you in me. But maybe you don’t know, since my pieces filled all the empty spots yours left behind. But, well, for me it’s quite obvious that you have come into possession of bits of myself, and that, without you, I’d never be quite whole. And that, in my own twisted world, (and even there, it’s a selfish thing to say), makes you mine. My very own lover.
