2018-11-13 - 2:01 p.m.
I tried to have the talk we keep saying we need but people kept coming into the room. We kept switching rooms, and people kept interrupting, until finally it's so loud, how did this night become a party? It's loud enough that we might as well have the talk right there in that dark room, or maybe a dark rooftop somewhere in the city.
I say that I feel I'm always on the defensive, that I'm always one wrong turn of phrase away from becoming a threat, an attacker, an adversary. I say that I didn't know what I wanted five years ago. All I knew was that I wanted hot sex and a partner who made me laugh. Now what I want is default emotional support and trust and belief, a baseline from which all other decisions stem. What I want now is that an insensitive moment becomes a place of discovery, not a battleground.
I swallow your mistakes because I'm afraid of what discussing them will arouse. Now each mistake is a knot in my stomach. Every lost item, every unhealthy decision, every toxic friendship.
I swallow the battles and each is a bandage across my mouth, a rag down my throat. When the war comes, it's over in minutes.
I say all of this. I turn to you and realize you've gotten up and left the room, the rooftop, the party, and I have spoken all my confessions to a total stranger.