Don’t write the story of my life. Don’t write about the time I was wrongfully incarcerated for 31 days and no one said: “I’m sorry” about the damage that was done and the friends that were lost.
Don’t write about the time before that when Judy came into my life and it was an incredible year of love, of walks and talks and holding hands. A year of laughter and saying “you are taken” and “forever mine,” and after all this walked away and never told me why.
Let me tell these things in my own words when I am ready. I was there, you weren’t. I know all the intimate details. The truth and the lies. Not the presumptions others spread. I must tell it in my own way. In my own time. And I will tell it.
She must hear it from me, before others get to her. Others, like you, who weren’t even there.