I dip pieces of me into the ink before writing to you. I struggle to peel off the layers, put them down on paper. Truth hangs off of me, heavy like stones strung on string and threaded through me. I am pulled and know these words you may never read before I am gone. I have conversations with you in my head, letters that I will never said, countless pages that I have written and torn out of books to throw away. Instead I sit perched at the window of your life, watching the world I cannot be part of. The words stuck inside of me like slivers of glass.
You said once that you never lie. You just didn’t always share all the information. Lying by omission. The truth in versions. We are all liars in the end, living complicated lives.