We were not real… not really real. I mean, you were real, as in a real person, and I was real, as in a real person, but we as a we were not real. We couldn’t have been. We wouldn’t  have survived. Well, we didn’t survive in the sense that  we are not we anymore. But, just as fragile human bodies with human egos and crystal thin psyches, we would have, should have disintegrated, or smashed each other’s humannesses against our irons. We should not  have survived My Monster… your prodding.

Did we die in a sense? Did we not survive the I of us and the you of us? Did we not survive? Maybe we didn’t.

I remember telling you that the Monster of Me will stay caged now, not even a nod to the most begging whisper of a tease of you, not a pull from your whiff. you agreed. your bulging pantydandies would choose sleep as well.

This must be the not surviving I am certain we did. This must be the death… the death of My Monster. The refusal of your press.

 

Elizabeth Fellows

6/27/2020, 10am