The thing is . . .

you were trying to end it as I was leaving, and I didn't want to listen.
I'm still reeling, I guess, and have no idea how to deal with this. I could tell you all of this, but I'd have to double back and cover tracks a million times before I could get a word out, with my catty manipulations, my obsession with controlling the, the situation. Nothing is under control anymore, is it? I ripped myself out of the pages of that town's story more than a year ago, and I've just been haunting it these last months, haunting the us we made, beating my breast, rattling chains that neither of us ever wore nor wanted, and wailing. And I wail here every night, too, I have my special crying time, when I take you out, place you in front of me, and talk to you like I want to, like I should. Sometimes I write here because it feels ghostly, less tangible than a journal that can lay around for years, collect cobwebs, and haunt me. This could blow away like rotted drapes.
Someday, cachete, pero, ay, como impossible lo haces! No es justo, cachete, este lo sabes. I never thought I'd become la llorona . . . para ti? ha!
Pero no me importa.
This, too, shall pass . . .