I have actually come to miss you.
The you that I used to know.

Not the you that currently inhabits your being
the one that cannot see anything
beyond it's own
consumption
like Beast
in a Disney movie.

The other you.
The one that was kind, and gentle, and....
touched ever so softly.

I'm no Beauty,
and I am trying hard
to love this Beast

but it doesn't stop
my longing
the other you.

...and what am I do to with the information you so indifferently tossed out to me? You feel nothing? You are not capable of loving? I hear the sound of glass (which is my heart) shattering into thousands of exquisite glistening razor shards, slashing at my very existence. You don't love me? You don't love me?

 I hear screaming. It is my mind shrieking with disbelief and horror at this news.




Days later.

I have digested this news and chosen to deal with it by referral. I will believe you are not taking your antidepressants and thus are not in a reasonable mind. You are not you. (Please God, let that be the truth).

Yet, I always suspected it on some level. I always suspected that because you were unable to value yourself you were equally unable to love anyone else. But dammit, I wish you hadn't said it outloud.

Now I pantomime my days as the me I used to be, before the news. I pretend to laugh and care and live...

Somewhere in the recesses of my female mind is the stalwart belief that if I just give enough or do enough or am supportive enough ...... he would love me.

Then my other synapses kick in and I am sickened. over my own desperate needs. After all most men seem to prefer bitchy dominate women who tell them what to do. So how would my meekness be construed as desirable. Meekness is a synonym for weakness.

I feel most vomital for my lack of spine.

To speak, to say anything at all is to put oneself in jeopardy or peril.
How odd for a one-time writer to be silenced by emotional blackmail.

How can a heart and mind contain this quantity of anger and frustration and forlorn eagerness and yet stifle it behind walls of silence? Is it of a finite size wherein all this is contained? Will it rupture one day spewing forth all contents and creating havoc and upheaval on those I love?

 Or will it be so contained as to put immense pressure on the brain shorting out all thought and leaving in its desolate wake a blithering idiot? Am I destined to be one of those people who is found in a bus station with no former knowledge of who I am or how I came to be there?

 Would that be a better existance?