Marla.

Pull away from me when I tell you it's alright to watch the explosion. It's okay, that's just how you are. And I excuse that, because I understand. Believe me, I understand.

I've understood since the first time I saw you hide behind your mask of smoke and lies. Mirroring me, making me believe that I'm less of a person, because I saw you as less of a person.

Insomnia ate at me. It ate me from the inside out. There was no way to make this better - except to let go of every preconceived notion I had about those who cry uncontrollably in public. Because now I felt safe, under this facade of names, under this facade of faces and diseases and there you were. Making me feel so fucking insecure again.

Every day I asked myself who I was. Who are you?, my brain would ask my body. Who are you?, my hands would ask my feet. The asking party would get no response, because the parties on the receiving end of the question couldn't tell them. So every part sat in awkward silence until they were forced to work together again.

Kind of like an office filled with cubicles.

Everyone kept to themselves and didn't really get to know each other. Every co-worker lived in a microcosm, and no one would ask each other existential questions for the fear of not being able to get the answer they needed. For fear of being rejected. For fear of socialization outside of their comfort circle. You shot the shit with the people who barely even knew your name about subjects everyone knew a little bit about. And then you went back to work, by yourself, quietly. Not asking questions, not striking up conversations that were just time wasters.

Time you couldn't get back.

I never wanted to let you in. I never wanted to make you feel like you were anything but a face that I abhorred. Less than a person. Just like you made me feel. You consumed my thoughts like only a lover could. I could never love myself, though. So I could never love you.
But he loved you.

He loved you for all your quirks and dysfunctions. He loved you for your cries for help and your sexual deviancy and your ability to tell the truth in those fucked up metaphors you were known for. He was able to love you for your erratic spikes of black hair and your eyes with those dark circles around them. He was able to love you, but he wouldn't call it love.

Just like he was able to love himself.

I wasn't able to love you until he was gone. Until my cry for help turned into that dawning realization that my mundane life filled with things that would never matter was exactly what I needed. I didn't need adventure or pain or anything that wasn't what I already knew. I wasn't this person. And it was so strange, this entire period of my life was so strange. It confused you and you hated me. You hated me for not being able to differentiate between his love and my love.

I'd apologize profusely, but there's bombs going off. And they're holding your attention better than I ever could.

Me, with this bullet hole through my face, me, with this new view on life, me, with my new ability to understand.

Me, with the ability to love you.

I'd apologize profusely, but the city is burning.

I'd beg for forgiveness, but there's bigger issues happening right now.

Maybe I can find stability in your insanity, even though I sure as hell couldn't find it in my own. My own craziness, that's what led to all of this. My own problems. I was so incredibly self-centered and I didn't even know it.

I'd tell you how sorry I am, but it's three in the morning and I can see everything.

I suppose you deserve a statement to justify my actions. I suppose you deserve to know my name, my real name, I suppose you deserve to know everything. The scars, the shingles, the monkeys, the bombs. The insomnia. The lies. You deserve to know everything, it's no longer a "maybe" or an "I suppose".

I apologize without saying sorry, with intertwined fingers and a statement that you could interpret any way you wanted to.

I hope you understand.