Undeleted Nonfiction

These are words I wouldn't want to say to walls.  These are words I'd rather swallow and have rot my organs than hear come out of my mouth, or out of my fingertips, but I suppose I'm not supposed to do that anymore.  I'm not supposed to pretend to not feel.  I'm not supposed to go back to numb.

But I could. I could pretend like it doesn’t still hurt. Like I don’t remember your face and hear your voice in that moment and clench my fists, digging my fingernails into my palms until I draw blood. Know that I could. Know that I'm so good at pretending like it doesn't hurt, you wouldn't know the difference.  

I wish I could blame you for my needing to say this, but it’s not entirely your fault. Because what I said to you to make you say the things I'm now reacting to, the trigger to everything, wasn’t completely true.  I answered a question in haste, in a nod of a head, ready to accept any answer you offered. Maybe you deserved more.  Maybe you didn't, maybe you shouldn't have asked, but maybe you deserved more.

The truth is I have never told this truth before. I have told the full story in half truths or half the story in full truths but never all of it and true together.

I have it, though. I have it, emotions and all, if you want it. I think you’d like that part of it, that part of the truth. The truth I’ve never told.  I don't. To me it's like a dirty secret, buried under a floorboard or tucked into the carved out pages of an old encyclopedia, because though I'm sure there's beauty in feeling what I felt, in the humanness of it all, feeling that kind of human was more shameful than beautiful. There's is no liberation in looking for meaning, only the feeling of being a receipt crushed into the tread of construction worker's boot as he braves the slushy sidewalk corners to avoid the crowd.