I woke up
and threw my phone against the wall. Punching a pillow, kicking a mattress in a
tantrum tantamount to a twelve year old, furious with angst and anger, rage and
confusion and worst of all, the possibility of hope. Looking at the phone, I
read the message again. And again. The birth of hope, the promise of pain. And
at 1.43, the only woman who could look me in the eye was free.
An honest
person, someone I know I could trust. Someone who is kind, intelligent, sweet.
Someone whom I could never call mine. A woman so cruel to be kind to me. And
so, angry, I work myself up into a rage again. And then calm, I pull the
strands of myself together, and watch helplessly as she sinks back from whence
she came. Leaving me, still standing, still waiting.
It’s not
her concern, none of her business really. It’s not completely her fault and definitely
not her worry. While I wonder what horrific sin I have committed to be so accursed
as to like someone so perfect. And I sit here, unable to come to grips with
myself. Unsure and uncertain and worst of all unable. Refusing to open the box
and find a dead cat, playing it safe, standing on the side, too scared to do
anything but wait and wish for another life.
Be my rock,
be my solace. Be my shouler to cry on. And I would wake up at 1.43 every
morning, if only to throw my phone at the wall again and breathe in the
crushing air of hope.
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