The Story I Wrote You Into
I needed you to sink into the black hole and fill it with sparkling putty. I painted your robin egg eyes, wrote of your freckles brought out by summer softball games. I thought your kindness was a synonym. I wrote of the metaphor of you being my ex-husband. I craved for you to be the antonym An analogy of the passion I searched my entire life for.
So maybe I should blame myself for writing over your blank page, struggling to make you a better man. But wasn’t it you that generously accepted my rewrite? Didn’t you agree that your eyes were innocent, your freckles normal. You told me you were the kindest husband, not him.
Yes, I wrote you into an astoundingly beautiful creature, but you let me believe that it was real.