What you and I don’t know about each other could fill volumes.
I piece together tidbits. I know what you look like though I’ve never stood in the same room with you. I know you have family you are close to and friends who love you. I know you are creative and kind and apparently funny though I have no idea what type of humor amuses you. I know you’re sensitive and a healer. We probably could have been friends. Except.
We’ve loved the same man. At the same time.
I am fairly certain you hate me. I don’t blame you and honestly, I understand. I’ve done things I never thought I would. Felt worse than I ever thought possible. Circled around my truth, hid from it, then swallowed it. Whole. In my own heart I’ve bargained. I’ve walked away repeatedly. Fought to break free so you could have a chance. So I could, too. I am not entirely selfless and definitely not blameless. I am so many things, qualified as good or as bad depending on the seer, but I am always honest.
Ask him. He knows the brunt of it best.
I don’t know what you know of me. Or if it’s you that is checking my blog from where you both live together. I’m not even certain if you know that he talks to me. That he always has found a way back even when I change my number or move or say goodbye. A thousand times, goodbye. That I’ve always said you deserved better. That we all did. Because we all do.
By all turns, I am the other woman. I do not fool myself into believing any different. I’m the personification of a deeper problem. I’m a fantasy escape programmed in his mind’s speed dial. But I’ve participated in a lie that is not my own which makes me party to the masquerade. And that is not who I am. Not in every other place but here. And here should be no exception.
How much do you want to know?
You and I have never spoken though you’ve told him we have. I get the desperation that drove the lie. Maybe you’re hoping to finally get the whole truth. I think you already know but the mind can guard against the heart’s worst fears. I do not know your intimacies, your inside jokes, your years of knowing him in ways I never have or will. I do not know your heart. But I hope you know that truth is the very least of what you deserve.
What you do with it is your own.
“This is a story of loaded glances and leaning in too far/this is a story of vague advances and confessions in smoky bars/so now I am walking down the sidewalk/and I am singing to myself/and I’m going to leave it all behind me now/’cause I don’t need this, I just don’t need this. . ./some fantasies are never meant to be realized at all/ and some regrets could be prevented/if you read the writing on the wall. . .” -Burning Bridges, Chris Pureka