I don’t know why you keep telling me that you can’t tell me what’s going on right now, that it wouldn’t be fair. The things is, I’m not asking. I’m not curious. I haven’t asked this question, you’ve placed it delicately in your head.
And I don’t even know if I want to talk to you, until I do, and then I do. Want to talk to you that is. We hadn’t spoken in a month. I don’t know why I called. I just did. It wasn’t to say hello, but it was to hear your voice.
There are few times, and far between at that, to look back at our lives and regret the things we do. I’m just not that type. Neither, for that matter, are you. I have a nice way of rationalizing things to myself, a nice way of moving on. “It wasn’t meant to be,” I say, “It just wasn’t fucking meant to be.” And I’ve said that about you. And I haven’t believed myself. Yet. But I can. It's coming, at some point. Even lies become the truth if you say them enough, talk yourself up to the door and let yourself in. It’s not a lie if I think it so.
I don’t know what makes you take this penance on yourself, but if your going to castigate and flog, at least get a stronger whip. If you’re going to tie yourself to the rack, don’t chickenshit out, don't leave one arm free and dangling. Lock yourself in, good and tight. Let the minions do their worst. Because you’re the one who’s decided there’s a price to pay for things that happened before we ever met, so if your hell bent on doing this, then at the very least respect it. Follow through.
And I cannot promise I’ll be there when your done. Not anymore. I would have in the past, but now it means a bit more to me to take care of me. My hands may still be tied, metaphorically, perhaps I am bound to you, that's part of love afterall, but I’ve found a little pocket knife and I’m using it to fray the twine. There were others before, and there just might be others to follow.
I don’t know that I’ll ever understand why you talked yourself into this, that things had to be a certain way, but if you feel you have to earn it, then it’s time to fucking earn it. Because no matter how hard I’ve begged and pleaded and wished it to be so, you’ve never been more than a survivor. You’ve never expected more out of yourself, and you damn well didn’t know enough to ask or expect more from me. And the guarantees are off. Because I just might resent you for the rest of my life. Or I could love you forever. What a fucked place to find oneself.
You're not supposed to hit a woman, I know this, but my God I could pop you right now.
And I'm sorry things are hard. I am. I can hear it, the hitch, the choke, the effort and strain to just speak. Not break down. The wanting to tell it all. I am so very sorry.
I called because I wanted to hear your voice. It had been a month. And they are all still there, all the feelings, all the ways and means by which you’ve always effected me. And I may understand that this is serious to you, that you believe all this, but I’ve stopped trying to find where it all came from. That’s for you to do.
And I don’t know what I hope anymore…