A younger me was unable let another person feel parts of me that I myself couldn’t get a grip on. I had considered myself timid, but swiftly, I began to realize that I was characteristically selfish with my love, and how I wanted to feel love. I wanted to cling onto something, anything – It did not have to be real, because unreal, intangible love somehow began to make more sense to me. My thoughts were unruly, untamed, as I wanted to hear him tell me things that would make his head swell. It was a craving to know – to feel another being so deeply and whole. But I did not want to give the same back to him.
I held back parts of me and fabricated details, minuscule to magnitudes. I latched onto ideas, motifs of different people or ideas I knew or had simply heard of. I was feral and hungry with projecting an unreal me, letting my senses flood with exhilaration each time I let my mouth consume any fragment of honesty I possessed. I pushed thoughts of the glaring wreckage that lie ahead aside whenever those thoughts arouse. We were writhing with passion, a demented form of love that was real, and yet felt false and codependent. I had hid behind a facade but also felt somehow, I was utterly honest in every aspect as I truly began to trust each lie I weaved in between the two of us. It went on until I was sure that he loved me, and he did. He told me through months that became years, and behind different backdrops of our lives, he loved me.
I can guarantee that he does not as much as mutter my name under his breath any longer.