i became good at pretending. i became so good that after a while the lines blurred between my truth and fiction. and sometimes, when i did a really good job of pretending, i even fooled myself.
am i really the person that you hold dearest in your heart? perhaps, is it too much for me to ask if you really love me? or did you only love the idea of me that you carefully crafted inside your mind for many years?
who's the real you? the person who did something awful, or the one who's horrified by the awful thing you did? is one part of you allowed to forgive the other?