Stacking.

It comes from within. A feeling. Something unsettling, lying there, lurking just beneath the surface. With time, with all this fucking time, it seems to become a neutral state, and so you try to accept. It can feel like this is the core of me, the unsullied truth beneath whatever layers I’ve built up to make my way in the world. A bruise, a graze, a cut, and blood rushes forth. And here, I empty myself.

It can feel that this is the only way I’ll ever be, that any other way, any other person is less a possibility or respite, but more just a distraction from something central and inescapable. Due to the unrelenting nature of this condition, the sense that there is a countdown can occasionally be overwhelming. Every return to this state is both harrowing but also strangely comforting? As if I’ve come home, to where I belong. The moments I am content are an aberration and only this…

We wont finish that sentence, we both know where that leads. All that matters is that tonight, I will not die.

We’re just stacking, all these pieces of our selves. I know all the people I’ve been, all these aspects of myself. What should become easier with time instead becomes laboured, frustrated by the weight of histories I’d do better to relinquish. I know what I want to say, but there’s so much unspoken, so many qualifications and explanatory divergences to ever make sense. Words could never be enough to fill the teeth filled wound attempting to convene.

Whatever. Sometimes you need to wipe away the guilt, the burden of your silence. You have to say something.

I know who I was. Really, that much is all I can say. In some ways, I could see that person in you. I could forgive much, too much perhaps. I remained concealed, I had to maintain a distance. To be someone else, someone other than myself. The lies took their toll, I am no one. Tact and resignation too easily become fraud and cowardice. How easily we break and compromise ourselves. I saw something of myself in you, something I killed, and that time, I held my tongue, for that is not my crime to commit. Better I remained the antagonist, whatever pain that entailed.

It was your story, not mine. In the end that’s all we are, the stories we tell, I just need to get better at writing mine.

For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.

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