I meant to say how I was really feeling—there was so much warmth inside me, so much love still—but nothing could get out. Instead, I’d become a robot set to hyperbolic shrew: “You never,” I said. “You always.” “I would be less lonely if I lived alone,” I said, and I said, “That’s total bullshit.” I remember thinking that fighting with Honey was like fighting with a tub of cream cheese: There wasn’t a ton of resistance, but then somehow you couldn’t get out again. Around the time I was thinking this, Honey said out loud: “I feel like I’m trying to love a scalpel.” I knew what he meant. But
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