The truth is, I didn’t want to see you. Remember, silence? The key to the kingdom, isn’t it? It lets me go where I want to. It gives me the liberty to build my own city of nests. Meeting you was a chainsaw against a bark. Your cold metal against my mossback rings. Nobody was there, not you or I, to hear the pretty picture fall.

The camera in the face. How is it done, so mechanically and so quietly? Burned. That is what you smell, the ashes of a cage that I took care of burning when midnight fell upon our feet. Did you notice the sign language? The fingers I held up? (It was a white flag.) At that moment, you thought nothing of it, or maybe you thought of the awkwardness... But we maintained the play properly and stoically. Who wouldn’t be the one who gives up? This play, which started before we met, with actors who portray us all. Who act what they are afraid to live on their own. Who sing the words they could not say alone. Who wouldn’t be the one who gives up...

A lover once confessed to me that he believed that I was the muse in “this song” and asked me if I knew the one who wrote it. I don’t know if it was jealousy that pushed him to see me in that light but I answered him “I don’t know anything about this person.” and thought to myself “What a cruel thing to say.”

Labels: confession