what a mistake.

so often your writing betrays you. all of your prejudices, the hard bits you spend your life trying to conceal, bleed out, bleed to life in between brittle blue lines. squared sheets hurt your shoulders. i remember, you told me.

maybe it means that in certain circumstances, you'll never know how to lie to me effectively.

maybe, suppose i should take comfort in this. when you write your Dear John to me, i'll recognize how to read you, know exactly what you're saying by how you're lying. i might find solace in appreciating all of the emptiness and what it means, all of that negative space.