Letter to a writer Part IV (repost)

I know you remember everything. I still remember our starting point, and how easily you became my muse. I sometimes wonder what it's like to be a muse, how it must feel to be the art, and not the artist.  
 
But then again, we both know I take all your pretty words for lies, and you can't even compliment my eyes without me wanting to hide my face. You have this way of seeing through me, and I like to pretend I have a good poker face, when the truth is you know all my tells.  
 
Do you remember the time you almost saw me naked? Cause my boyfriend still does, and it's a strange kind of embarrassment. I swear it was too dark for anyone to see anything on facetime, and the summer heat had me stripping off without thinking. I never told you that he thought we must have had some kind of relationship I hadn't disclosed to him. He wasn't mad, just confused. And perhaps a little disappointed we couldn't all be naked together. Though perhaps that's just my wishful thinking.  
 
I think about how you've seen the best and worst of me, and somehow still love me anyway. And I hope more than anything, that it's a pure love, not a pedestal love. Because I think it would kill me a little to know that you held me up too high.  
 
Lately I've been losing trust again. Feeling like a bug in a jar, a fascination and not a person, and I hate nothing more than being an object. I have too much history with being loved like a thing. I keep thinking about one man in particular, and I don't understand why he kept me around like his favourite pet, until I broke the drug ties he held me down with. I'm not sure why I'm disclosing that long dormant memory. I guess I just want you to know that next time we talk, next time you're nice to me, I might hit out with a survival reflex that you're not expecting, because all my nerves endings are so raw with the remembering of things I'd rather forget.  
 
So I apologise in advance for any "fuck you's" that might roll off my tongue, in your direction. It has nothing to do with you. I'm just a little bit lost, and I'm swinging between violence, and the press of intrusive thoughts that make me want to say things that will press buttons that can't be unpressed, just to see how far I can push the boundaries, though I honestly know better, cause I'm the one who built the walls.  
 
And next time I say I want to be on top of you, know that I mean emotionally. Cause that's what I think I meant. Though our history makes for a good fantasy in my head. And you still know me better than almost anyone, and maybe that's what I really want; to be seen, a naked soul, rather than a naked body. Bodies are easy to love. Souls take a little more work. And I don't care what you say, I know I'm not easy to love.