We weren’t ourselves
when we fell in love, and when we became ourselves –
surprise! – we were poison. We complete each other in the
nastiest, ugliest possible
way.
I’d
fallen in love with her because I was the ultimate me with her.
Loving her made me superhuman, it made me feel alive. At her
easiest, she was hard, because her brain was always working,
working, working.
I often don’t say things
out loud, even when I should. I contain and compartmentalize
to a disturbing degree: In my belly-basement are hundreds of
bottles of rage, despair, fear, but you’d never guess
from looking at me.
You can't be as in love as we were and not have it invade
your bone marrow. Our kind of love can go into remission, but
it's always waiting to return. Like the world's
sweetest cancer.