I want to believe all these things I really do, I want these words to have meaning again. I cried when I read this, real tears of love. I want to love you and have you love me. But I've gotten so many texts and emails and empty promises of this nature from you. You never fulfill your end of the deal. You just say the pretty, hollow words and magically expect that no action need be taken. Just purring such loveliness should make me feel so special that I will shower you with love, sex and adoration. There was a time when that's all I ever wanted to do, and all I wanted in return was real love and honesty. You couldn't even give me that. Your sense of entitlement precluded it. You wanted me put away when not in use. "Here is your weird little room you can go to when I don't need anything from you. Don't worry, I had my mom remove all of my ex-girlfriend's shit out of here for you."
Perhaps my obsession with all of your past lovers is not so much jealously but an obsession with who you are. You revealed so very little to me that I looked to your conquests to try to piece together just who you really are. If you are even really there. The women you were with and the people you surrounded yourself with, though most so wholly unsavory and lascivious, they still seem more real and human than you. I find myself envious of them, not because they had you or you had them for a brief moment, but because they seem free. They seem free and happy without you. I don't think they sit and pine for you like you would like to think they do. I wonder if they ever think of you. We know one dizzy twerp does, but in what way, I don't know. Melodramatic drag queens just can't help themselves, I suppose. They all seem so liberated, yet somewhat possessive of you when you approach. That, I can't figure out. As if fucking you for those few minutes gives them some claim to you. I know you don't really care about them or think of them, fondly or at all. You are so focused on yourself. The ultimate narcissist; you think of nothing but your selfish needs. You used to like to think of yourself as some sort of sexual monolith, roaming the land, giving busted hoes all the pleasure their blown-out twats could handle. Like only you could give that amount of satisfaction, because you are you. I know this is ridiculous, I know it. But yet, these stupid reptiles, they persist. They refuse to leave my mind. Because each time I had any encounter with one of them, it was some sort of unbeknownst turf war, some secret, sexual battle no one let me in on. I didn't know who you were before we met, and let's face it, I didn't know who you were after we met. I don't know who you are now. You are a shape-shifting, manipulative charmer. A snake charmer. You charmed all those other reptiles with your front-man attitude and whiskey-fueled swagger. This lame local celebrity, whose vices overtook his talent long ago. But they were fooled and charmed by your saccharine melody. You must have stayed in their system too, because when you forced introductions between us it felt as if they had some claim to you that I didn't. They were there first after all; in the dozens, no less. I didn't feel threatened because I knew they couldn't give you what I could, but I felt strange. There was something rather uncomfortable about each of these meetings. (And fucking inappropriate, you boor.) And there were many, with many different women. I had to wonder what the purpose of their ebb and flow in and out of your life was. Did you really need that much validation? You needed to have an endless supply of women on tap to mollify those deafening feelings of inadequacy? I guess as a hologram, you would need plenty of flesh to feel human. But what was in it for them? That's the question I can't seem to answer. What was it about you that they couldn't get enough of? Perhaps if I can answer that question for them, I could answer it for myself. Freedom lies on the far side of that answer. Is that the basis of my obsession with these women? They were all so awful, maybe all but one, I think. They all treated me like some uninvited interloper, that shouldn't be with such an initiated member as yourself. I had feelings of not belonging, but as I always did, since childhood, so I didn't pay much attention. I felt like with you, I belonged, so those other nothings didn't matter. I felt so strong then, I thought I could slay all those dragons and demons for you or with you. But it's been so long since I have felt strong. I don't even remember what that is like. I obsess about your past, much more than my own. I simultaneously hate them and envy them. I can't understand what you saw in most of them, they seem so vacuous and ordinary, but then again, so are you. We both know they were just "feathers" in your cap. They weren't real people to you, but just warm, squishy holes to stick your cock. A face to get off on. But how did they not know that? Are you all that fucking stupid? Are you all so entrenched in that bullshit ersatz rock-and-roll fantasy that you just don't care? Am I the only one who fucking thinks this way? I'm always the outsider; the alien. What is human, even? Who the fuck knows. I still hate them. I still hate you. Because you are all the same. Gross, weird reptiles grasping at straws of humanity. And not caring a bit about what other people feel as long as you get yours. I'm the moron for caring. I know that. I hate them and envy them because they seem to understand you, where I just can't. You are all part of some elite, yet seedy club that I will never be allowed entry, nor under normal circumstances would want entry. But I was so enamored by you. I trusted you and believed those disgusting lies you told me. I thought you were sincere. I ignored all the hints at the truth. I'm the fool.
Trusting you is nearly impossible at this point. Any progress we ever make is thwarted by some frivolous lie you tell. Usually involving women and your past. I know I have an unnatural fixation with your past, but it's difficult to consider it your past when you continue to act in that way in the present. I thought loving you genuinely and wholeheartedly would have been enough to have you love me back, but it wasn't. You felt entitled to me, like a prize you had won for all your hard work being a prurient cad. I felt so used and tricked. Now I don't know what I feel. Distilled hatred is there; jealousy, resentment too. Anger is always lurking just below the surface, frustration is constant, but it is the imminent threat of madness that both earns your notice and dissolves whatever could be left in our marriage. Your manipulative and deceptive behavior has fucked with my mind to a point where I fear I can't get it back. That is where the venom stems. There is perpetual contention, mostly in my own head, because some part of me refuses to leave you. I just don't fucking know why. Why does any part of me still have latent feelings of love? It's so painful, to love you, to be near you, to keep subjecting myself to the abuse I know will never stop. Just for some distant memory of what love feels like, just for some faraway notion of what your touch used to mean. I am a sadomasochist and you are a narcissist; a most codependent pair. I guess neither of us can help who we are.
Trusting you is nearly impossible at this point. Any progress we ever make is thwarted by some frivolous lie you tell. Usually involving women and your past. I know I have an unnatural fixation with your past, but it's difficult to consider it your past when you continue to act in that way in the present. I thought loving you genuinely and wholeheartedly would have been enough to have you love me back, but it wasn't. You felt entitled to me, like a prize you had won for all your hard work being a prurient cad. I felt so used and tricked. Now I don't know what I feel. Distilled hatred is there; jealousy, resentment too. Anger is always lurking just below the surface, frustration is constant, but it is the imminent threat of madness that both earns your notice and dissolves whatever could be left in our marriage. Your manipulative and deceptive behavior has fucked with my mind to a point where I fear I can't get it back. That is where the venom stems. There is perpetual contention, mostly in my own head, because some part of me refuses to leave you. I just don't fucking know why. Why does any part of me still have latent feelings of love? It's so painful, to love you, to be near you, to keep subjecting myself to the abuse I know will never stop. Just for some distant memory of what love feels like, just for some faraway notion of what your touch used to mean. I am a sadomasochist and you are a narcissist; a most codependent pair. I guess neither of us can help who we are.
