Alive

You don’t know it, but I wouldn’t lie to you. I didn’t know it either. I was strung out on coffee and Adderall when your best friend introduced you to me. I always assumed you noticed the addictive dependency in me from the start. You called me paranoid.
When we slept together the first time, you promised that no one would cry at my funeral. Or maybe you said no one but you. The memories are fuzzy now, playing in that melodramatic black-and-white reel through my mind. The first one was probably truest, whether you actually said it or not.
I never said I love you. You wanted me to. I wanted me to. I could never find the words to express myself to you though. I would stumble around it, an elephant dancing the love ritual. You said you appreciated the effort. There’s a box of all the gifts hidden on top of the bookshelf under a shag carpet of dust.
You noticed, even though you never mentioned it. I didn’t want anything to change. That was something else I never said. You knew I knew deep down you were never mine to begin with. That was the truth that kept us lying.
I never realized how much a funeral could make me feel alive.