It's not from lack of medication. It's not because my chemical coma has worn off. It's not the monthly melancholy my fairer sex suffers. It's an unexpected and indescribably painful disappointment.
A disappointment in him.
It's taking a bend and finding myself staring down a miserably familiar road.
A road I don't think I'm strong enough to travel again.
A road I don't feel I should have to travel again.
Nor will I wait on this spot for him to return from his detour. Go ahead on his merry way he may, but I can no longer entertain this foolishness.
Not again. Not anymore.
I'm instantly nauseous. Nauseous as the recollection of humiliation washes over me.
Always falling short.
Beating myself up for not being what he wants.
Well Fuck That.
Really, really truly FUCK YOU.
Fuck off too.
God, I hold my own hands to restrain myself from slapping his shinny bald head.
I want to hurt him so badly that it hurts me to hold it back.
I want to hit him so hard that he'll suffer brain-damaged - permanently disabling his "I am a dwoos" lobe.
Take a breath and push the bitterness deep down into my gutt.
Take a breath and remember that nurturing anger is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.
But other than being angry, what am I supposed to do?
I don't know.
I only know that I can't do more of what we've been doing.
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