Wasteland Deity

07 I Didn't Want to Make This About Him

I didn't want to make this about him. But God it is. It's all about him. From the plaster on the walls to the blood stain on the carpet, it's about him. I loved him. And I don't say that lightly. It kills me inside to say it, to utter it. And every time he makes me say it, it's like a piece of my soul is ripped from me. I feel torn. I am torn. I am a torn magazine, a beat up old book, forgotten paper in a waste basket. I am nothing to him and that kills me in ways that I can barely explain.

And when he takes me by the chin and demands that I tell him I love him, I ache far inside, in my aorta, in the depths of me. And when he pushes me away so he can go out into the night and find someone else to love him too, pieces of me decay like flowers wilted away. And I am lost without him. I am lost without his abuse, without his attention and his necessity. I crave him in ways that you couldn't possibly understand.

I want to bleed into the concrete under me. I want to be stepped on and spread thin across the pavement. I wanted this. I wanted him. And no one understands that. No one gets that I asked for this. I wanted it. I truly did. I am not a victim. I refuse to be. Because I asked for him, and when I got him things just became bitter sweet.

I didn't want to make this about him. But God it is.