We were too young to really know.
I think I should try to explain what happened so you can not believe me.
By the grace of God, or a practical joke played on me by the universe, or in some latent need, someone was taken to this diary.
I've never really understood what he saw here, because it's just my dirty clothes stacked up in a pile in the trunk of my car. I don't think any of this is beautiful, nor do I think it's ugly, it just is. But there was something he needed here, and he told me as much.
And, as impossible as it seems, we emailed back and forth without needing it to lead somewhere, and never did I think I would meet this man, and never did I think I wanted to see what it was. It just was, and what ever it was was enough.
When he read this, he often thought it was about him, so he needed to stop reading, and stop talking to me, and stop sharing everything. So now he has.
Today I am in touch with my anger. Today I'm pissed that you could think that was about you. Both of you.
It borders of self absorbed. When I read, I assume it's not about me, it's the only way I can keep reading without breaking my heart each time. So, I'm angry that you are angry, because it didn't have anything to do with you. Both of you.
It seems I'm never going to be able to explain my way out of this. The entire situation is beyond even my comprehension. Better, I shouldn't have to explain, I never ask you to explain. And maybe it's impossible for you to understand that I do have relationships with other people that do not revolve, or evolve. Relationships that are other connections that have nothing to do with lips. Maybe you don't understand.
I've never wanted you to be anything you are not, except for here. What kind of person does that? You are what you are, and that's it. I am the same, here, alone because of it.
Fuck it. Fuck all of it. These phone wires will not carry me screaming. And fine. Fine. Be what you think, and if you think this is about you, then take it. I'm not going to try to figure it out, because you told me I can't. So be it. Be the puzzle no one can put together, 10,000 pieces thrown into a cardboard box, or scattered on my dining room table. If that's what you want, that's what you should do. But you can't expect anyone to try when you tell them they can't win.
So here's yet another fucking worthless bottle, with a worthless letter tucked inside, thrown into yet another worthless ocean.