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has the time really come to mend The Mistake? with the letter finally finished, all that was left was for her to muster the courage to send it off. she worried that her words would be misconstrued. or worse, deflected, so that when they bounced off of his shielded heart that had become so full without her, they would scrape and puncture her delicate skin like daggers, and remain embedded in her flesh forever, so that she may never forget the foolish decision she once made, and how it really did change everything.

she felt cheap for knowing.

with it all down on paper, it was almost more difficult to convey, and she felt as if periods and indentations weren't enough. what she truly required was charts and diagrams, visual representations of the complexities and complications of her short history-a bar graph of truth. she made sure to write it down becuase she feared that she might forget, and confuse what really happened with some other, more palpable version she used out of convienence, or self consciousness, or some combination thereof. (a girl's got to have some secrets, doesnt she?)

she wanted to write it all down because she thought that maybe some other truth would become visible during editing. some fact that she had hidden from herself would, via the reworking of her own words, be revealed to her. always looking for reasons, but ceasing to find them, she read and re-read her own passages, dictating her secrets to herself again and again in hopes of learning something new.

not for the first time she snapped back to reality and found herself underground. a terrifying realization: how easily she forgets. how easy it was to fool herself into settling for something else. (Here, her mother's words haunted her.) she knew she was a sucker for it. love with out feeling, going through the motions without any meaning. here we are, we play the part. we touch and I cant feel it.