Friday, May 27, 2011
"You know me." My tongue darts out to nervously lick the desperation from my lips. "Sure, I'm a mess. Who isn't?" I remain rooted to the floor watching his face close a steel door to me. He says nothing. Again. Still.
How many times have we been here? Him shutting me out, me clawing and scratching my way in...and for what? The constant pain and disappointment? I told a friend once that he needed to sort out why he felt he didn't deserve happiness...hello pot.
What is it about me that repulses men? They get drawn in by my smile, my words, but once they know me...poof. Am I too intense? Too demanding? Do I ask so much? Is it impossible to love me?
Why do I fight to keep them? Why?
I slink down the wall and crumple on the floor. I pull my knees up to my chest. He stands, resolute, across the room. He might as well be on the moon. The chill wounds me. I feel the fight within me die. I resign myself to this zombie-like existence. Maybe all I'm good for is a fuck. They don't want understand me, show no interest in my mind, won't even read the shit I write. They cherry pick the bits they like and amplify them in their minds. But when reality smashes the fantasy...well...I end up here again.
"Fine. Go." He lets out a breath like a deflating balloon. I don't look up when the door closes.