I remember when you first told me about him. I remember when

                         I remember when you first told me about him. I remember when you told me about his eyes and the jokes you had, and how he liked you but how you weren't sure if you felt the same way. I remember asking you how you were going to tell your parents, and when? Weren't you worried they wouldn't understand? You'd wondered if they'd think that you were going down the same path as your heroin-addled brother, still living with his old boyfriend who'd thrust him into his habits in the first place. I told you not to worry, that I'd be there for you. You laughed, and told me that I was the only normal one around here. If only you'd known. That raised so many questions for me, questions about me. You thought you knew who you were, but did I? I'd always been commended on my extreme self-awarness and sense of self, but this was unlike anything I'd ever known. I've been plagued by questions of who I am and where I lie, questions I'd never pondered aloud for fear that someone could hear me. And honestly, now, you sit across from me, at the foot of my bed, reading quietly, shaking the bed subconsiously but with the force of an earthquake, and I sit here, screaming in my head, clawing at myself from the insides, about who I am, and who I could possibly love.