the worst of it


i must admit, at some point in the day, it comes to this–the sad pathetic state of owning my heartache. i wake up in misery whether i dream of you or not, and i prefer to see you in my nightly slumber if only because it helps me sleep better, (not because it lessens the heartache). a friend was kind enough to say, “you know they say if you can’t sleep at night you’re awake in someone else’s dream” but i doubt you give much thought to me, i doubt you dream of me.

everyday that passes without a word from you, i assume you love me less. i assume there’s more you’ve forgotten about us. i assume, as in your travels, you’re going further away. and in a way, that’s okay. my days pass at a snail’s pace and though S says i’m faking it, i still laugh, i socialize, and i make the most of it.

the longer you’ve been gone, the more i understand the extent of my pain. slowly it’s dawning on me just how much you hurt me. you took hurting me to such an extreme degree. and i’ve come to the conclusion that you are selfish, but you have a right to be. and when i said you showed signs of single-child syndrome, it wasn’t a compliment.

you always made fun of me for my memory, you laughed and so lovingly called me Al, but i guarantee there will be so much your memories won’t hold, whereas for me they will be permanently etched into my heart and my brain. do you remember, at one point you thought i was magic? do you remember, more than once you said you’d rather marry me than never see me again? do you remember, you used to think that i spoke the language of your soul? do you remember, you invited me into your world? do you remember, we once joked about if you were to ever break up with me, it’d soften the blow if you’d set me up on a date with JGL? i’ll make sure that’s another thing i won’t be waiting for. i don’t think i’m waiting for you, but it’s hard to tell.

it’s hard because when i have a bad day, when i hear news that scares me–you’re the one i want to go to. you’re the voice of comfort i want to hear. there’s so much i can’t tell anyone, not that i’d tell you, but even if you sang to me again sometimes i think it’d help. worst of all, i want to go to you with happy things. i want to share the best of things with you. but you, as others before you, choose to remain silent. and it makes me hate you.

hate is a strong word, in many ways stronger than love, but that’s the word that best fits the way i feel from time to time. i don’t like it, but it’s there. i think of the guys who’ve come to me in the last few weeks, with offers of sex, with offers of their affection, with suggestions of real commitment and it’s something new for me to actually see i’m a wanted woman (even if you didn’t want me) and i wonder if you’re off sleeping with another girl. i assume you are. there need not be reasons for why i think you would. it does make me think less of you, and right now, i don’t think you deserve my respect.

although i’m usually one to cling on to love, and although i’m prone to always foolishly hoping for the best, i cannot wait to get over you. i cannot wait till i really enjoy being single again. even though you were being honest with yourself, you have no idea what an insult it was to me, what an insult it is to us that you could consider the fact that you want to be open to something happening with another woman. i find that it disgusts me. it belittles us. and it makes me think you’re no different from other men.

even then, there’s a part of me that wants to contact you, to tell you to come back in September anyways, but i expect you won’t. and even if you did, you’d find me a different woman. you’d find me cold. i think it sad that i write these things to you, it irks me that you still have access to my thoughts and feelings, to my world in writing, while i am left clueless about your thought processes.

but what i know of you is this: you’re not one to dwell in the past, you don’t allow yourself regret. you will forge ahead and maybe one day when you’re in your death bed you’ll look around and be glad you took this trip and that you gave it your all, maybe you’ll have another woman to call your wife and those children you wanted by your side, or… maybe just maybe, it’s only then that you will realize you made a mistake. that you should have never let me go. that i really was the best of the best. but maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

you’ve left me conflicted and hurt, but more than that, you’ve left me alone and you’ve broken my home. i want to say i forgive you, but i don’t. not yet.

as it is, i don’t think you even come here anymore. which is just as well. what i write may be about you, it may even be written to you, but i do it for myself. for you, i will write no more.

you have no idea how many nights i have spent sleepless.

i don’t know if you’re quite worth any of this.

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