if anyone ever asked me, i'd...
what would i do? tell the truth? about one thing, at least:
i do feel horrible having to keep so many secrets and tell so many lies. yes, they are white lies. no, they don't hurt anyone except myself; but nobody likes being lied to, even about inconsequential nonsense.
but it's a lie i'm telling not because i want to have power over anyone, or i get off on fooling people, or it enriches my life in some twisted way. it just makes me feel a little more normal, like an actual human being. less of a broken doll or an alien from a star too far away to be seen.
it means i can delete what he did to me and everything that crumbled around me when he did and start over it means i can erase her from my past & her echoes from my life and start over it means the summer girl can blossom and the winter child can please just melt away
i have been handed so many endings, and i hate them. i've had enough. finifugal. please, please let me begin.
the secrets are there for the exact same reason. those are almost lies of omission, i suppose. things not elaborated on. but i don't think i have as much of a problem with lies of omission as i do with outright lying.
and why should the truth be embraced if all it does is place explosives in the foundations of the stronghold you're trying to build? why should anything? a truth isn't noble or wonderful simply just because it's the truth. sometimes the truth is the ugliest fucking thing you'll ever see.
i have reasons. if anyone ever asked me, at the right time, when my last nerve is worn down to nothingness and i'm in the same place in my head as i was that day when i sat beneath the eucalyptus tree by the lakes at school and wept too hard to breathe, i would explain those reasons. they are good reasons. justifiable reasons.
so no, i don't want anyone to feel deceived or slighted, but their mild feelings of annoyance are not as important to me as getting my head above the goddamn surface of the pool of shattering nothingness that opened up on the night of may 31 that year.
i had wings and they were torn off.
i grew them again. i will not let anyone touch them, now.
i don't want to be a concept, or a tragedy, or a character in someone else's story any more.
i just want to be a goddamn normal girl.
and if you've seen my anpanman, tell him i'm still waiting for him.