So, once again I independently decide that you don’t love me. You deny it, you say it’s not it.
I have a hard time buying it because I know how people act when they are in love. They can’t bear long separation, they can’t help responding to texts, it’s the Force that moves them.
Your actions are nothing like that. It hurts, but it is the truth. You are noble but you are also, what is the word, preoccupied.
So, fine. You don’t love me. I am cool with not giving my love to somebody who doesn’t care.
I am very picky about gift-giving. No. More. Serenades.
But when I tell you that I am out because you don’t love me, you argue. You say, that’s not it. You act hurt.
So what the fuck do you want me to do? Is it so motherfucking difficult to let go of me if you only need me during special moments of loneliness – every second Tuesday of the month, from 3 to 3.30 p.m.?
I could write an essay that would go something like this:
“It hurts so much to abort an emotion that is pregnant with amazing beauty….it hurts so fucking much. Mainly because I don’t understand where it will go after it is separated from my heart – will it become a song? A new love? A butterfly?”
I would of course never finish the essay, it is all scraps, no form, no grand conclusion, no drum roll. Just raw emotions.
Emotions are a window to other dimensions. It is so obvious that I don’t understand why anybody would want to suppress them – they are a window to other dimensions, hello?!!!!!
Hello. Hello. You don’t hear me. You don’t listen. You don’t care. But you don’t want to let me go none the less.
Don’t make me kill laughing children, don’t make me stomp on the crisp white wings of the butterfly, don’t make me….
You just did.
I don’t know where my emotion will go. I have no idea.
But you had a chance, you had a chance, you had a…
If only pain didn’t excite you more than I do.
Fuck! I understand.