Pain & Poetry

What do I want? I want the woman I love to care more about loving me than what may or may not happen. It hurts that she doesn’t. It hurts that she chose fear over love. It hurts that she doesn’t and didn’t include me in her life. It hurts that I was just a way to stay busy on weekends until she fell in love with me and suddenly there wasn’t time anymore. That she chose to not come to the dance we planned for her to attend and that she couldn’t choose to make her decision to end our romance in my arms where we could have shared tears and love and kisses and said goodbye in our best ways of speaking to each other. It hurts that she decided for me what emotions I would feel toward her, that she decided for me that I got frustrated with the only person it mattered to me to dance with. It hurts that she decided for me that I would always be disappointed and hurt by the woman I loved. It hurts that she made those decisions, made those assumptions without giving me a voice. Without asking. Without telling me that was how she was feeling before it was over. That for all the times she called me a unicorn that she didn’t trust me to continue to live up to that. It. Just. Hurts. And it’s going to for a long time. I deserved better. I was not perfect. But I was open to potential and possibility. It hurts that she was so focused on the short term. I am not two months of recovering from an injury and confusion and heartache. We deserved a chance. I deserved communication instead of distance. I deserved some of the patience I had given in return. It hurts. It hurts that she wasn’t ready to include me in the truly vulnerable things. You don’t have to trust anyone if you are willing to share your self-improvement with everyone. It hurts that love wasn’t inspiration enough to say, “Yes, and. . .” It hurts that with all her wild, amazing imagination she chose to imagine why we might not be compatible instead of how our differences complemented each other. Because that’s all I saw. How we complemented each. Who I could be with and for her while still getting to live my life as myself. It hurts that it was too much to ask to make a meaningful connection daily to someone I love. That it was too much to ask from someone who says she loves me. It hurts that all the songs stopped meaning what they did when she shared them and it hurts that not a single one has changed in the slightest for me. I hurt. It hurts. I love her.

I gave her my heart,
But she stole my voice.
We talked of writing songs together,
And the overture was a masterpiece.
But as we moved into the movements
she scored my part for me
Then sang it as well.
And I, who was still inspired
By the song we had yet to pluck out
With her fingers on ivory and mine on strings
Was struck dumb
By the caricature that wore my face
But was a man I’ve never known.
He felt things in ways I never felt them,
He made judgements that I had never made,
And he sang in a clef and key
That I don’t have the range to sing.
Our duet ended before the sonata did.
I gave her my heart freely,
But she stole my voice from me.