I use to call you my Diego and I made that comparison with a lot of love.. Frida said one of her greatest accidents in life was Diego. She loved and loved and loved and loved him so much.. too much. I loved you too much. I loved you so much that I believed the turmoil of our “love” was worth it, was grand, was everything, and was all the love I deserved.
I have never been able to actually finish writing about you. I can only really write about the way you’ve made me feel. I’m not sure if it’s because it takes so much out of me to relive our story or, if it’s because I feel like I shouldn’t be sharing something so personal about your life to other people. You’ve always been so reclusive. I use to love that.
Maybe it’s because I’m embarrassed and ashamed of letting myself go through any of it.
In the back of my head, I don’t think anyone will ever get it. They won’t be able to really grasp what went on. I could try to put it into words but they won’t be able to feel any of it. They might not believe it. They’ll never understand how much I loved you.. or why I chose to love you. They’ll never understand because I don’t even understand.
I don’t know what’s real or what isn’t anymore. You were my biggest accident. Before you, I was so sure of myself. I didn’t doubt myself. I didn’t sit there and question every little thing about my existence.
Like Frida, I’m the topic I know best.. I’m sure of how everything you said or did made me feel. I would bring it to your attention, I’d share my feelings with you, and you’d immediately invalidate them. You’d question if what happened really even happened and when I tried to stand my ground, you would effortlessly debunk me.
I can’t write about you because my reality has been a little distorted. Unlike your pathological lying self, I can’t fathom the thought of sharing a true story when I’m not even sure what was true. I could’ve sworn you loved me too.. but I know you’d deny it.
I know you’d deny that time we reunited after almost 2 years of not seeing or speaking to each other. You’ll deny us sitting in the dark at your apartment, catching up. You’ll deny me staying the night. You’ll deny how you held me so tight. You’ll deny how you cried and said you thought you had lost me, and you’ll deny those kisses on my forehead that I loved so much.
But that one was real, it was so real. It’s the realist most empathetic memory I have of you. I would never let that one become distorted, no matter how hard you’ll try to debunk or deny it.
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