(no subject)

[autumninnewyork]

XXXV

Proud of my broken heart since thou didst break it,
Proud of the pain I did not feel till thee,
Proud of my night since thou with moons dost slake it,
Not to partake thy passion, my humility.

---Emily Dickinson

Lynn McCale. He did it again. Never really do change, do they? These men. Go around and around again, breaking hearts and like fools we forgive them. We believe the lines and the eyes full of sincerity, the whispers and the promises and the vows.

I thought, I thought he was changing. Wanted to change. Wanted to be with me. Me. A good test run, you know? Could he be faithful for such a short timespan? I'm on my way out, the perfect girl for a man like him.

Or did I not expire fast enough? No, wait, that's not fair. He doesn't want that, I know he doesn't. He panics and is beside himself whenever I end up in the hospital. I'm hurt but I won't be unfair. He's a creep but he's not a creep, the distinction's important to me even now. He's Will.

And the funny part, the ironic part, I find myself wondering if I really have any right to be angry with him. How can I demand he love me? Only me? How can I expect him to give me something he's never willingly shared with anyone? I'm not even going to be here long enough for it to matter and shouldn't a first love have some substance to it? Longevity? All I have to offer him is brevity and pain. Heartache and misery.

Is it really any wonder why he was fucking Lynn McCale? On the roof of his friend's house, while I was inside telling bedtime stories to the children? Okay, so that part is vile and reprehensible. Why couldn't he do it where I wouldn't find out? Where I could remain blissfully unaware and ignorant of his transgressions?

Or did he want to be caught?

And he says I'm the one who is just a kid. How childish is he?