These Are The Words I’ll Never Share…
By Eva Faber
What I want you to know is this:
There are things that make my tongue curl and my eyes spin, all because I want to say them aloud so badly. Say them to you. Strings of words that form sentences that don’t have any meaning until I write them down. Write them for you. I want you to know that up until today I never thought I’d write this. It’s liking carving in stone all that should be forgotten and now I no longer know if I want you to see the writing on these walls or to just knock them down.
Before I met you, all I spoke was easy lies, so eloquently you’d sure have believed every storyline I made up for you. But you, you spoke in such a manner you made me want to be better. I tried changing the easy lies for easy truths, but when I whispered in your ear that I made tea for you, that there was milk in it, that I made that, just for you – you nodded and drank the coffee she made you.
So instead I started lying better. At night I crawled into your bed and seduced you with this body of lies. I’m sure you remember how we spoke of our great leaders and the future we envisioned for us. Who could’ve known that all I invented in those starlit nights would be closer to the truth than anything I thought I knew for sure.
This love or whatever you want to call it, it’s the closest thing to real I ever lived through. All the other ones slowly killed a piece of me. Nothing was ever taken for me; parts just started to disappear. I remember looking into the mirror one morning, how I noticed a shade of pink had vanished from my cheeks. Maybe it’s nothing to you, nothing to anybody but me, yet I’ve stayed clear from mirrors ever since, too scared to see that by now there’s nothing left.
I’m telling you this because you should know. You should know that of all the things I said, of all the things I did, of all the parts that together appear to be my life, you are the one I want to remember. If I could keep you, I would, I’d tell you a new story every day and be the best liar the world has ever seen. Instead I write to you, to tell you what I want you to know most of all:
Maybe you didn’t get my all, but you sure got my best.
I wish it was good enough for you, but it’s not. I work until my bones strain no more, I invent words and use them until they have meaning, I write and I write and when there’s blood on the space bar I tell you the best tales of my life. I smother you with beautiful endings and disarm you with my heartbreaking dreams. Yet “be silent,” is all you say on your good days. “Shut up,” on your bad. You hate how I touch you, reach you no matter how you try to hide away. You hate how much you want to believe in me. And most of all you hate how I’m not yours alone.
“You’re like a whore, sharing those pretty words with strangers.” you said. “The promiscuity of your words disgusts me, so shut up and keep it. I trust you as much as you love me.”
I guess you’re even more of a liar than I am, so I want you to know this, to read this, know that I wrote this for you. I’ll never tell you and even if I did, you wouldn’t believe it. So know this. Know that I did. Let my silence be your proof.