She is lost to me. Though she shared my womb and my bed, she was never really mine. Not really. I never felt it to be so. Was that my fault? I never felt good enough for her, or her. Was that it, that perpetual failing that moves so naturally and habitually from one relationship to another? She said she loved me, that I’d always been there. But that was the day she cried after her lie was found out. It was guilt, I suspect. We pussyfooted around each other. Nothing was ever really said. She’s said it now, via FB, in staccato paragraphs, not stopping for breath. It won’t disappear. It is still there, haunting me. Tell me you’ll do something about it, says a distant relative from America. Life is too short, she says. Yes, it is but I don’t know what to do. I am so vulnerable to the hurting of her. I was from the moment she emerged, greasy with whiteness, crying for succour. We do not know each other. Nothing holds us. She was lost to me then, and sheis now.
