＃３９

I did not want to condescend to you — I don’t know how it came out of me. You must believe I don’t feel it, don’t think it. I feel as though something spoke through me . . . like everything I have fought not to become, every terrible trope I have despised in others, all coalesced at once in the back of my mind and forced down the doors of my lips. I am sorry, and afraid, and lost. Am I still me? Am I still here, friend, or has the light in my eyes all gone out? I will believe whatever you say . . . I am at your mercy.