You've taught me that misery doesn't love company, it loves neverending, silent sympathy; a mother figure to coddle, unconditional, bottomless, a hollow vessel into which can be poured all your seething hatred of life. I'm not seen through your tears, disappearing under the image of what you want and into the fog of your depression.
Every day I make myself over from pieces of other people and of my shattered past. Who I am, ever in flux, changing on the whims of obsession and fear of being left behind. I would say that I've lost who I am but the truth is I never had a chance to establish an identity before it was ripped from me along with my innocence.
I once had a pair jeans which, every time I put them on and felt them slide over my thighs, felt like I was sheathing a weapon. I don't know why, but they made me feel strong and confident enough in my own strength to be unafraid of where others' thoughts and hands may like to roam. They made me feel powerful, like I could crush all the fear and opposition or like I could trust my own legs to run and carry me away from it all.
But they were dark blue jeans in a faded fabric and pre-stressed denim world. My jeans were a blank...