photo courtesy of the author
Eyes feeling tired? Take a listen to the full essay below. I'd love to read it to you.*
*I hope you'll excuse the few, minor flubs. What can I say, sometimes the truth is imperfect.
I don’t really know how to begin, except to say, I think of you a lot.
I think, and I wonder, and I ponder what it’s like for you. If you are happy. If he’s happy. If and why you were somehow the answer to everything I wasn’t. But mostly, I wonder if you have any idea what actually happened, or if you just accepted, at face value, his version of it all. Well... wait, I don’t wonder about that. I know you did. And I know the version you were told. It was the same version he told me.
There was such a delicious poison in being left for a younger woman. It seeped into my pores and made me question everything I thought I knew about myself. Like a pin in, what I thought was, my otherwise full tire, it slowly, methodically, silently sucked out every last bit of air until I woke up one morning and found myself unrecognizable; a soft puddle of rubber, clinging to my rusty rim.