BLUE, BLUE
And what about him? I spend most days happy and enveloped in ignorance. I tell myself the story is over and there is no way he continues or finds the pen he wrote the climax with. He's become a passing thought... someone I used to live. I'll never know why he stalked me for 3 months, or why he broke in 3 times. I can take a guess at why he waited until 2 A.M. His fixation with my sleeping meds and their sedation... the way he called me baby and said he loved me. The way he got mad whenever I talked about other men. The way he planted a recording device. I know what he was planning to do. I lie about that too. I tell myself he was going to murder me. Because, truthfully, I think that's an easier version of the story to live with. I can't bring myself to hate him. I've tried plenty a time. Maybe, I don't try hard enough or I'm not doing it right. But, I find solace in knowing my part in the play he directed is over. I bowed out a long time ago.