You know what kills me?
Jan. 14th, 2001 11:57 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
aruanOne day, as this world will doubtlessly prove to be too small for the both of us, we'll meet up again, maybe in a supermarket produce isle or in a Starbucks at some random streetcorner; and we'll stop and stare for a moment or two, and maybe by then I will have gotten him out of my daily thoughts and quashed whatever residual feelings still remained in a deep, dark corner, but that one look will unleash a flood of everything all over again.
I can try to be coy, and he can ask if I'd ever thought back and I can look away and go about my business and lie through my teeth by asking, "You don't think I have better things to dwell on? Don't flatter yourself" and it'd be just that, a lie, a bitter, shameful lie that clenches my heart and burns my stomach with its pangs of anger and pain. I probably couldn't even look him in eye as I say it for fear that they'll betray me with tears. He has no idea, no idea how much I have and probably will continue to think of him, and I hate that - nothing and no one has power or jurisdiction over what I say or do or think, and then he can just waltz in, past all the barricades and sarcasm and false bravado to strike anew at the very core of my being. He haunts my dreams, has me hopefully glancing back over my shoulder and fantasizing about candid meetings or steamy reconciliations - my soul at once aches and loathes in his name.
Do you know what really kills me? He never felt this intensely towards me - hell, I doubt now if he ever even wanted me or if I was merely a conquest on his road to wherever. He never knew, nor does he care now that I ever and still do burn for him like this, seething in my own lust and resentment. A touch, a word, a chance meeting of the eyes, these trifles, to him they're nothing - to me, they're stolen bits of a part of my past that is seemingly doomed to lie just below the surface, seemingly dormant, but stinging anew at the slightest provocation.
I can try to be coy, and he can ask if I'd ever thought back and I can look away and go about my business and lie through my teeth by asking, "You don't think I have better things to dwell on? Don't flatter yourself" and it'd be just that, a lie, a bitter, shameful lie that clenches my heart and burns my stomach with its pangs of anger and pain. I probably couldn't even look him in eye as I say it for fear that they'll betray me with tears. He has no idea, no idea how much I have and probably will continue to think of him, and I hate that - nothing and no one has power or jurisdiction over what I say or do or think, and then he can just waltz in, past all the barricades and sarcasm and false bravado to strike anew at the very core of my being. He haunts my dreams, has me hopefully glancing back over my shoulder and fantasizing about candid meetings or steamy reconciliations - my soul at once aches and loathes in his name.
Do you know what really kills me? He never felt this intensely towards me - hell, I doubt now if he ever even wanted me or if I was merely a conquest on his road to wherever. He never knew, nor does he care now that I ever and still do burn for him like this, seething in my own lust and resentment. A touch, a word, a chance meeting of the eyes, these trifles, to him they're nothing - to me, they're stolen bits of a part of my past that is seemingly doomed to lie just below the surface, seemingly dormant, but stinging anew at the slightest provocation.
