If it were another day, another month, another era. When mistakes were not made, or we could make them without shame. If there was nothing to lose. If everything didn’t seem so tentative and quick to evaporate. Maybe, it could work out.
If I didn’t scream so much. If I didn’t wreck my body, my mind, my life. If I believed in myself. If I even believed in you. Your realness. Maybe, it could work out.
If you could feel. If you were free. If you meant those things you whispered and wrote. Maybe, it could work out.
And it won’t, and I’m okay with this. I really, inarguably am. It’s nothing personal, and outsiders say it’s the right thing to do, but of course they don’t know that this is one of those things I can’t let go without feeling the opposite of apathy.
I feel we’re like mirror images of each other, but I’m not sure if this is an accurate comparison. If it is, it’s probably a good idea to let go. When you’re so much alike in the most unflattering ways, there’s so much at stake, so much risk. And there’s a risk that’s not too bad, you see. It’s like having a disease that, in actually, isn’t that bad. There are perks. You just have to work with yourself. Manage the upsides. The blooming remission. The talents, like pearls within muddied oyster shells. So, I guess that would mean I’d have to work with you, and you with myself. Quite a damn bit. Each day. And I failed at that. Do I want to try again?
I can’t. Again? No. I love you too much to put you through the horrors of entrapment.