I've been told I'm crazy. I've been told that my actions are unfair and my thoughts irrational. But I remember being someone different. I remember holding someone's hand and looking into their eyes, knowing that I was safe once. But I don't remember how it feels to be secure.
I remember the lie that shattered me. I remember the text messages from an unknown number and I remember dialing it. I remember her voice, raspy and contained, precise and confident and I remember thinking that she was nothing like me and I, nothing like her. I remember being in a home that I thought I was special to. I remember my hands trembling and my body breaking out in a sweat in the midst of 40 degree weather. I don't remember when the tears started or when they stopped. I don't remember how it felt to have mascara paint my cheeks with remnants of gritty charcoal. I remember how strange it felt to think back eight years and realize that I was so blind for so long.
I've been told that I'm gorgeous. I was told it last night and I'd rather not remember the last time I was used because of it and fell for a man who'd said it. I don't remember how it feels to be in the company of hundreds of exotic women and still feel like I could walk with my chin up anymore but I know how it feels to want to be invisible in crowds. I remember the last time I wanted to be seen for something more substantial and less visible. I remember it was last night.
I don't remember how it feels to be someone's everything. I don't remember if I ever have. I don't remember the last time I didn't question everything a man has said and I'd rather not remember the last sentence I over thought or over analyzed or over--
I've been told that I'm inconsistent. That I run back and forth between decisions. I remember trying to explain myself for these inconsistencies but never finding the words and I remember how it feels to not be understood.
I'd rather not remember the last time I filled my mind and time with one man to drive out another but I remember all the times it didn't work. I remember all the times I badgered myself after every failed encounter saying it was me, it was me, I'm in adequate, of course, it was me.
I've been told I'm a bitch. That I'm heartless and closed-off. I remember thinking they're right. I remember building a wall years ago, with red bricks and cement and like Montresor did to Fortunato, I too sealed someone behind this wall. But my prisoner still breathes. My prisoner scratches the walls and yells for reprieve. I remember how the walls have grown over the years and how the open space that lets in air has become smaller but I'd rather not remember how long I've hid the good of me away. I'd rather not remember how long she's waited for someone to take the time to seek her and carry her away.
I've been told I'm crazy.
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