I could tell you that I just ate a salad. But what I really mean is that I just ate four large chunks of deep fried and breaded chicken breasts soaked in Caesar dressing on top a bed of salty, garlic croutons, topped with a half a block of goat cheese and three slices of crumbled bacon that happened to rest on a single leaf of Romaine lettuce.
Just like you could tell me you love me. But what you really mean is that your ego has been ground like a smoked cigarette under the heel of another woman and that you are trying to put yourself back together by putting me on a pedestal made up of all those parts of me that remind you of her.
And I could tell you I’m fine. But what I really mean is that I am shrinking under the weight of your expectations and with every passing moment I am beginning to forget where I begin and where your idea of everything I was supposed to be ends.
We could say we’re happy. But what we really mean is that we are two broken people attempting to find wholeness in each other by chipping more and more pieces of ourselves away in a desperate effort to fit together.