It’s not even eleven yet, but there’s nothing keeping me awake. I don’t like it. I’m so used to us talking until midnight. I’m used to you calling my b.s. and trying to figure out what I’m really saying. I’m used to you pretending that you love me.
You scare me. You should be proud. No on else scares me. No one else matters enough. But you do. I want you to like me. I want you to protect me. I want you to listen to me. I want you to stay.
I didn’t know I could make you so angry. I feel like I should be proud. Proud that you don’t just nod and walk away. Proud that I matter enough to get into a real fight with.
Proud that I know you well enough to poke where there’s shrapnel. But that’s what we’re fighting about, isn’t it? I knew it would hurt.
And I said it anyway.
How angry can I make you? How hard do I have to try to make you cut me out of your life? Because we both know I’m not good for you. We both know it. You just won’t admit it.
Sometimes I think it wouldn’t be that hard to convince you none of this was real. I’m not a good liar, but manipulation comes easily to me. You’re the one who figured out why: people don’t want the truth, they want a truth that fits into the framework of their reality. I’m good at finding a truth that fits.
Would you let me do it? Would you let me find the lie that fits? Could I convince you that our last conversation was planned? That I followed through on my threat to force you to make the decision you won’t let me make? Can I skew our truth so completely that you would actually believe I am evil?
Or would you still call me out on it?