When I am going to get it? you ask? You didn’t ask? Well, I did. When the fuck the fuck am I going to get it?
He wanted to leave. He needed to leave. He wasn’t happy with the life we had. He didn’t love me as much as he thought he did. I didn’t make him happy. He wasn’t content. He didn’t want to spend his life with me. I wasn’t the man he wants to be with. He left so that he could be happier, so he could breathe easier, so he could be free to live life. He left so I wouldn’t give my life to someone who didn’t really love me and who didn’t want me. He didn’t do anything bad. He didn’t do anything mean or cruel. In many ways he made a hard, strong choice for himself (and maybe for me). He’s over it. He’s over me. He left me to live his life, to enjoy it more, to be happier without me. He’s doing exactly that. Just as he should. He’s not wrong or bad or evil or mean because he doesn’t love me, doesn’t miss me, doesn’t think of me—or because he’s relieved to not be with me and likes his life better sans me. He’s not bad because he’s free of me or because he will date and love someone else, give his life to someone else. It doesn’t change any of the good things about him that he will never come back to me. He is who is with or without me. The man I love doesn’t cease to exist because I’m not in his heart—because he’s never coming back.
He’s never coming back. When will I get it? You’d think I would already. You’d think after weeks of no contact, him taking the final vestige of his dead feelings for me out of existence, that every part of me would accept it and let it sink in. I’m really trying to let it. Trying to kill the hope that clings to me even as I try to scrape it away, after I’ve tried everything I can think of to kill it, to make it sink in, to make it share the grave beside his love for me. I’ve gotten to the point where I hate it. I don’t want the hope anymore. I regret that I asked my dear friends to hold the hope in prayer for me even when I couldn’t. I don’t want it. I want it gone. I want my brain to be able to have that realization that he really isn’t coming back. That he doesn’t want to at all, that it’s not even a possibility. Even if I can’t get it to make sense to me, I want my core to accept it. Even if it shatters me more than I have been. It hurts too much to continue to hold on. I’m not even trying to hold on—I’ve tried nearly every path I can think of to sever the hold and it refuses to let go. I don’t need to be as happy as I was. I don’t need to as loved as I thought I was. I don’t need to have anything as good as I did, but I don’t want this. Better to come to terms with the fiery blade keeping me out of Eden than to take a section of the flame with me, constantly burning, devouring from inside—a cancer. At this point, I don’t even care if I fully recover from it or if I regain full function again. Let me be the amputee. Sever the gangrene that continues to eat me before there is nothing left. Cut out whatever part of me holds the damned and insane hope so that the rest of me can function instead of every other molecule of my existence being consumed by the infection. This is not the man I want to be, and I can’t continue to be this man. I no longer care if I can return to who was, or if can experience the good that I did have. I just don’t want this. I don’t want it.
I DON’T WANT IT!
Black Coffee Tables
1 year ago