I have no words left.
The emotion I have for you is measurable, whereas before it was infinite.
It measures tall and wide, almost beyond comprehension; but it is measurable, and barely outspans the pile of your lies.
I count them, those stories you tell.
I consider their worth as articles of human fault and pile them carefully in indexed categories, easy to reference later when I have need to remind myself how far backward I’ve bent for you. My spine aches. All for you and your impact on me, including the child I carry for you.
No, you couldn’t have been an actor – no more than I could’ve been a nun. My faith is a decision, weighed against the calculated likelihood of your failure to measure up to it. Your choice to fail. My choice to believe. I don’t know what here is hate, or love. I have hope. Cynical hope. I don’t expect it to be validated. I expect you to fail and hurt me and yourself.
Why can you never let anyone down, NEVER even think of possibly not doing what they expect or want or need of you? Why am I the only one you can disappoint? Well, I am. More in myself than you. And when the piles and rows upon rows of stacks of stories you’ve told makes finding the love I safeguard impossible to find… So will I be.