• My love and your love

    by  • November 3, 2011 • * Safe for Work *, Resentment • 0 Comments

    I hate you.
    Those three words fly out of my fingers like icy daggers piercing into my soul.
    I. Hate. You.
    In these days of technology and instant messaging and Facebook, most of our arguments happen over the internet where I can spew and scream and stamp and swear all from the comfort of my own room. No matter what I say, the person on the other end, you, cannot see the real me.
    I hate you.
    I hate you for everything you’ve done to me, all the hurt and the pain and the sadness you’ve put me through. I hate you for throwing me down time and time again and not stooping down to pick me up. I hate you for laughing at my anger, scoffing at my frustrations, rolling your eyes as the tears roll down my face.
    I hate you for making me feel worthless, for painting that pretty picture in my head only to have it ripped away to reveal an ugly canvass of browns and grays. Your face.
    I hate you for charming me with your smile and enveloping me in your embrace, for tricking me, fooling me into thinking that maybe this time, maybe this time it will be different.
    I hate you for making me love you.
    And as I sit in my bed, surrounded by papers and the artificially colored orange remnants of the 6 ounce bag of Goldfish crackers, face streaked with the watery tracks of every. single. stabbing. word. you have typed out to me in that little blue and white chat box, I can’t help but think of how happy I used to be.
    Used to be.
    Used to be.
    But there’s no going back.
    And no matter what I do, no matter what path I go down, whether I dye my hair blonde and pay twenty thousand dollars for some plastic surgeon to inject 6 ounces of silicon into my 32A breasts, whether I create a bracelet of scars and get a tattoo across my back that says “Life sucks and then you die,” whether I sink within myself until I’m buried so deeply within that not even the physicians with their shiny slender scalpels can dig me out.
    Love can’t be stopped.
    And so be it. But when you remember me in my misery, remember my definition of love. Remember that love isn’t just a feeling; it’s an action. Love is more than just coming to the Halloween dance with me because I bought your ticket and spent half an hour pleading with you, “Please, baby, just do it for me.” Love is more than just holding my hand in private and giving me a kiss goodbye. Love is more than living as you were but with someone to love you back.
    Love is sitting for hours and hours at a debate tournament because I wanted to be there to support you. Love is knowing that you’re stressed out and surprising you with a bag of your favorite candy in your locker. Love is shelling out at least twenty dollars a week for you because you are too poor to have money of your own and I have to buy you lunch every other weekend but I don’t mind because you have to eat to live and I want you to live because I LOVE YOU.
    Love is wanting to be with you every second of every day and yet when only being able to see you for one second in the hallways, I try to make the most of that one second I have with you.
    But that’s not your love. That’s my love.
    And I hate it. I hate that your love and my love are not, and will never be, the same.

    Related Post

    Leave a Reply