This will be the last you know of me. And you really are a prick. I didn't think so before. But now? Now I really do. Like I don't even exist. Thanks.
Before, I mostly just felt sorry for you after we stopped talking - felt sorry for you being so detached from love, connectedness, and emotion, because it was so apparent that your detachment was nothing more than fear. Well, fear and lots and lots of practice at becoming a stone.
Shame on me for thinking that I could fill that empty space with light and love. Shame on me, for there is a difference between emptiness and nothingness, and you can't fill a shell wrapped around nothingness. And shame on me for playing the fool to lip service.
O, but poor, poor you! You've been done wrong before. Now everyone who comes after will pay the price.
Unlike you, I will not let the fact that you seduced me into laying down a healthy amount of caring before shitting all over it keep me from believing in the good in people.
Unlike you, I will not be beaten down and lose sight of my humanness - my ability to feel - just because some transgressor stole another shard of my innocence.
Unlike you, I will not become a zombie, carrying out a series of daily motions and calling it living. A constant cycle of wake, train, work, train, crappy tv, and sleep that keeps you from risking potential suffering that comes with really being alive.
Unlike you, I will not exist on fantasies alone, occasionally pulling someone else into them and telling myself that I'm keeping it real. Coincidentally, it reminds me of Giovanni Ribisi's character in I Love Your Work and his make-believe Christina Ricci. If only she could've been a real life dream girl.
Unlike you, I will not be trapped in the asylum of my own mind where the only gratification is deprivation. It's no more or no better than being trapped in a real institution, rocking away in a chair with the word "crazy" carved in its arm.
Go ahead and tell yourself that you're not so bad. That I was warned. Keep falling on that sword. Sleep easy at night knowing that you did it for my own good, as you rub yourself raw lying face down with it trapped between you and your mattress.
~ the lady love
3 comments:
My dear TLL -
As I read this, I'm reminded of Martha Wainwright's song, "Bloody Mother fucking asshole."
Hits right between the eyes.
I'm thinking good things for you.
Thank you. And I know the song. Apparantly, she wanted to entitle the album by the same name, but the record label wasn't so enthusiastic about the idea.
Honestly, I actually had the unprecedented thought of deleting this post because it was so venomous. Though I didn't send it directly to him, it is a real possibility that he could see it some day, and I am not trying to be hurtful. It's not my style. I'm a lover not a hater, remember?Anyway, I wrote it in a moment of anger and hurt, and those were my true thoughts and feelings at the time, and I have every right to use my blog as an outlet for those feelings.
Truly, I am fine, but I guess in all my life I have never experienced such blatant rejection from someone who claimed to care about me, so it really stung for a moment.
The moment has passed.
I've felt that moment before. Just this past year what used to be my best friend, the maid of honor in my wedding, decided instead of telling me what was bothering her about me and things I said, she would just stop talking to me. No returned phone calls, nor emails.
I had no idea what she was mad about and for a little while actually felt worried and concerned that something was wrong with her.
Turns out something is, but it's not really me. I could be there to help her or support her, but I'm done trying to talk to a wall.
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