well derserved

i think often about the lives i've left. the people i knew, watching me grow, and evolve, and learn how to love, in instagram posts, or the occasional text when someone we knew got married, or had a kid, or died. 

these people knew me. better than anyone. i was tangible, and concrete, and young, and stupid, and important to them. they watched me fuck up time and time again, and my naivety proved i was real. 

now they only see my very best moments. only the stories i deem important. i'm an unreliable narrator. they will miss my very best pieces because i didn't feel they were interesting enough. i have new people to share them with. 

i'm so worried you will do the same. it is inevitable. i will see your life play out through the things you're willing to give me. i'll miss out on your very best pieces, punctuated by your hands on my face, and your body wrapped around mine, and your presence laid over me like a warm blanket. all i will get is words on a screen. 

it hurts. 

i'm sorry to the people i've left. to the pain i have brought them. i think of them fondly. i can only hope you'll think the same of me.