
Sometimes, in protest, I think about how much I loved you — how could you not see that? But when others have declared their love for me, I remember the mistrust I felt. Certainly they were in love, but it was less me and more their need to be in love. “Me, loveable?” …
Sometimes I catch myself thinking about the future we might have had, how bright and lustrous it seems. But the mind has trouble telling simulacrum from reality, and I know the allure is simply my storyteller soothing the pain. Like morphine, I must moderate my intake lest I become the addict.