ii. letters i should never write — to the woman who had my last name first:

sometimes i think about you.
not because he made you a threat.
not because of jealousy.
but because i questioned what happened.

i saw the man that came to me.
the rot.
the confusion.
the mask that slipped only when no one else was looking.
(the cruelty.)

and i thought—
maybe only i could see it.
maybe that meant i could fix it.
maybe it would be different.

but i should’ve known.
i should’ve read between the lines of your silence.
the absence of details.
the things that didn’t quite add up.
the things that were too neatly erased.

i heard the whispers.
the ones people say in low voices
so they don’t have to say them all the way.

but now i understand:
he didn’t love either of us.
(i think it was the one in between / irrelevant.)
but truthfully—
he never loved himself.

i got your letters.
from the church.
the ones asking to dissolve what god had supposedly bound.
i read them.
even the accusations.
some were harsh.
(maybe unnecessary.)
but some haunted me.
because i know you weren’t lying.

and even in the slander—
i believed you.
every word.

i still would’ve protected him.
not because i didn’t believe you.
but because i knew what he was,
and still wanted him to be better.

i’m not religious.
but i am here to tell you:
i heard you.
i see you.

and some things that are supposed to be holy break.

but i’m proud of you.
it wasn’t okay.

and i’m sorry your dream fell apart.
i’m sorry for what was promised
and never delivered.

because the truth is—
he never had a dream.
just pain,
and delusion,
and a black hole of secrets.

i don’t know if we ever really knew him.
but we both tried to.
and we both lost.

i’m sorry what you had with him died.
what i had did too.
and the man we knew?
he lives on like a ghost.

but i wanted you to know—
i believe you.
and i know what it cost you to survive him.