I could tell you that it was only one, but it wouldn't make much of a difference. In fact, I think it's better if I tell you just how many there were. If I exaggerate, in fact. If I tell you ten, twelve, twenty, two dozen. Then you might think it was outside my control. Part of my makeup, part of what makes me me, and therefore nothing to do with me at all. Too much for me to control. Because, even with one, that's what it feels like.
And that's part of the problem, but there's more to it than that. Even though there was only one, with you, I know, that that's what would make it worse. The more I add the more forgiving you'd become. And it's hard for me to live in a world that backwards. To be at once myself and so entirely someone else, all to make you happy. I am treading, stalling, tiptoeing across your icy frame, and it's a sad, sad thing wanting to simply fall in and be done with it once and for all.
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