I wonder about Juliet’s life in Portland. We speak often, and I feign an affection for her that I could not possibly feel. If it aids in her recovery, then the lie is worth its price. Though it sticks to my throat, long after I have spoken it, I find that the discomfort is preferable to having her here. I am surprised that I can convince her of anything, as I have forgotten how to behave like a person capable of feelings. I take to watching others, and steal scripts from them. And isn’t this exactly what I judged many past lovers for? Avery tells me that Cody’s form is made up of what he reads in magazines, and I laugh. What else can one do, when they have found there is someone out there as pathetic as them?
These days, I am contained. Revealing only what can be deemed as acceptable. I frantically search for something profound enough to change me, refusing to accept that if I have not found it yet, I will not find it at all. I have said, I will not bend or break for anyone, but I would do it for my own salvation. I look to rebuild myself in the image of what I have always idealized. For what seems like centuries, I have longed for this. Here in the womb that suffocates me, here in the tomb that has mummified me. The pause in my breath holds an unintelligible whisper, an answer.