Why I Write What I Write, Part II: Weird, Artsy Montage

I see them before me. Each one I love differently, but unconditionally. Even the ones that now I avoid.

Perhaps “am learning to forgive” is a better choice of words. But nonetheless:

The one that hurt me—more and more often than any other in this life. But he was like a child, and I a nurturer. I practically raised him, though he was already eighteen when we met. I don’t really write about him any more. But I did. Omission from this list would perpetrate a lie.

The one that betrayed me, with one act of selfishness that I always knew was coming. Yet there were lessons—as the frog learned of the scorpion.

The ones I would never avoid. Probably because they never hurt me in that way. Because they never had the chance? Not a question to be answered. I have ached in other ways.

The one that came first. Just a boy. Always a friend. Now gone.

The one that stuck around. The words keep coming, and they’re different every time.

The one that was consistent—but whose other lives kept me wary. It was only because heart thievery was a quiet possibility.

The one that was a surprise. Well, one good shock deserves another. And now there are words I never dreamed would come from me.

And then, the one I do not write about. He loves in a way I do not understand. I love him back as best I can.