i am inherently an over-sharer. i am the girl who, after a couple glasses of wine, will start talking about the marrow of things, the inappropriately intimate matter. (it doesn't always take wine.) i crave confessions. usually butter the airways with my own. i tell too much most times. it is quite narcissistic and, i suppose, off-putting. annoying.
regardless, i will listen if you want to tell me your darkest secrets.
my past abuser is dying. or dead. i'm not sure which.
and i don't know how i feel about this yet. as in, i honestly couldn't tell you what emotion is sitting under my skin. i don't recognize it. it has the same aroma as relief, contentedness. and yet...i wouldn't call it that. it tastes different. a little more red. a splash more yellow. and then there is the grey. let's not forget to mention the grey. because that's where all the flavor is, yes? in the diffused mixture of dark and light? the color of the corner of the room. the color of our eyelids when we're sleeping.
someone recently told me (in so many words) that our demons take their luggage with them when they die.
i would like to believe this is true.