I feel no pressure to weigh in on the prolonged silences. I feel no obligation to comfort your stresses, or to massage your ego. Last night, with you in bed, all I hear was the proverbial clock ticking as I felt nothing. Sure, I was tired, sure, you weren’t trying to turn me on, but the depressing nature of the friction felt like nails on a chalkboard. As I faced you, you slowly got softer until it was violent again, or do you call it passion? We don’t give to each other as we use to. I was 55% support, you were 45%, and together we were whole. But time has run out, and you being away on business feels like vacation. You came home and I could feel your disappointment in realizing that even on the other side of the world, you could not escape from your own life.
All of our conversations are trips down the same road, which end with you eye rolling your tone, and with me questioning if you have judgment at all.
I am not blameless. I am a fraud, no angel, and no mother of your children. But why do I stay? I have tried to leave, and your vice grip was unrelenting. I gave into your advances, like I always do with men. As if on autopilot, I’ve decided to flee the state and go live alone in the mountains. There is no love here anymore. You shouted it away in your anger, kicked it out with sharp phrases that like tiny needles piercing into my skin, have taken me years to bleed out.