Don’t tell her I drink tea and like it with less drama in it. Don’t tell her I got dirty
little habits. I would like it if you omit me from the conversation completely.
Don’t tell her how I haggle even for a fifty. Don’t tell her anything about me
absolutely.
Don’t tell her I loved to sleep
with your smell on my skin after every fuck. Don’t tell her how I do not smell
like her. Don’t tell her I was your best friend and worst enemy. Don’t tell her
how I used to get angry. I can’t imagine anyone knowing me more than you. Of
course I can’t stand her knowing you better than me.
Don’t show her the places we went together and the places we could not.
Don’t tell her how I used to climb on you and sing-songs, pull your hair and abused the Leons and the Brandons. Don’t tell her that I
was a jealous, mean little girl. Don’t show her my faults. Don’t tell her how I
used to sleep late and wake up at noon. Don’t tell her how I used to call agony home. Does she know I like brown towels and expensive toileteries? Does she know I am full of scary human imperfecions and follies?
What if we meet around the street someday? I would like to be in my best. But what if I look worn out, tired, burdened and wasted? Don’t hide it that I was yours someday. Don’t tell her all our stories and secrets but do tell her- “She had loved me going out of her ways.”
Don’t tell her how I have always waited for the fall. Don’t tell her I had
loved to be lonely, insecure and went on biting my peace while waiting for her to
return. I knew all the way she would. ALSO, don’t tell her that I lost because she
won.
