On the Nature of Fucking
“i miss u”
“I miss you more.”
Don’t reply like that. Tell me the truth.
Tzs. It is what it fucking is. Fucking, that is.
It is.
And I guess we’re both going to be combative then, because I am exhausted. I have been exhausted for years before you, letting things go, expressing myself respectfully, doing all the things you’re supposed to do, communicating the way dem shrinks say you should.
Sorry.
Guess that makes us incompatible, you and me. Because our issues, our baggage, they clash. You’re an asshole, and I don’t feel like playing this game.
Besides, what’s the point of having a conversation about us?
First, there’s no us, there’s no we, as you’ve made abundantly clear and unclear time and time again through the mismatch of your actions and your words--or worse and more often, your silence.
Second, there’s no conversation. There’s me and my feelings. And your alleged lack thereof. I don’t know. Whatever. How could I know.
And fine. It is what it is. You called it a fuck. You reduced what we have to fucking. As you’ve done twice now. I ought to take it at face value, no matter the truth, because I will never know it. And the pain of thinking there’s more only fucks with me. You make me feel like I’m being dramatic and seeing what’s not there. But I’m not blind.
This addiction.
To you.
Yet I’m still sitting here hoping you’ll say you love me.
When you’re not even thinking about this anymore.