It’s not enough that you think you love me. I should also feel loved.
People move on and leave me. I am a convenient, safe way to dream. They retreat into me to lick their wounds, hide from the world while they plan their escape. And then they are gone and I am still here, left with the scraps and mess they are free to walk away from.
They never look back to see if I’m ok. They are just gone.
“Is everything ok?”
No! Nothing is ok. I’m lonely and scared… I need to be touched and touch you! I feel incomplete, small and insignificant… unloved and unlovable. Nothing. Is. Ok.
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
“It’s gonna storm later. Make sure the windows are down.”
I have no companionship daily, except the dogs, which I am convinced have been forced upon me to keep me from leaving. This latest run of no intimacy has persisted now more than eight years, with no end in sight. The loneliness tears my soul; as unbearable as a large clock thundering the passing of each minute.
The dogs are getting older; I can see it in their step. The person on whom I had hoped for companionship chips away at my self-esteem with every chance she gets, whether from bitterness, resentment or fear, I can’t ascertain.
I’m always looking…