I have been this ruthless pretender: refusing to spill the milk about my so-called romance with the X—somebody I used to bawl my head off with over untouched pills and conversations on Plath’s unresolved agonies. He used to tell me: work on your spirituality; take therapy sessions, for Christ’s sake. How about the gym? You can come with me Sundays after breakfast.

He was my personal Jesus. He would bail me out of every godforsaken emotional prison I would lock myself in. I would stay stirring on the couch, the blue light of the television at four am illuminating his face as he materializes by the bedroom door, signaling me to lie next to him because he is feeling lonely. I would obey with feigned submissiveness and fall into a brief slumber, his face against my naked back. Whereupon, I would awake and start pacing the porch like a sad, troubled child-ghost; the glimmer around my finger gleaming in half-light: dismal.

that's about it...for now.

i'm brain-drained.