The quiet is too loud.

It is seeping in everywhere and I hate the noise, the chaos, the lack of control. Too much time to think. Too many thoughts invading all the spaces where I want to be present.

I can’t do anything but feel. And write about it. There’s no one to talk to. No one who really understands. Sure, my village checks in and asks how I am, and what do I say to that? What else are they supposed to say? “Sorry you got fucked, in more ways than one?” I appreciate it; I just don’t have the capacity to manage their feelings too. I’m having enough of a time deciphering mine, let alone managing them.

I am sad. I miss my friend. I miss the hope and the possibility and the contentment. And the fucking bliss of ignorance. The comfort of trust. The illusion I didn’t know I was living in.

I am angry. I am angry that I fought my baggage to believe in you. And you weren’t ever worthy of believing in. I’m angry that you did this, you consciously did this, from the jump. You talked to me in that bar. You kept it going the morning after. And the weeks after. And then the years after. You forced my hand. I never had a choice. I didn’t have all of the information and I didn’t get to decide if I could handle the fallout. You knew it would come; you created it. You have to own it.

You haven’t and you won’t. I’m left to pick up the pieces. Alone. Again.

One week. Haven’t even attempted to make sure I am okay. That is the hardest pill to swallow; proof that I never mattered.

Not one answer to a single question. Not one attempt to communicate, to help me understand. I’m just going to keep screaming into the void. What else can I do? It’s my fucking prerogative.

You are the offender. It is your responsibility to course correct.

Your premise is false. A one night stand cannot last three plus years. But let’s accept your bullshit premise … it still doesn’t track. You’re delusional. If you really felt it was just a hookup that lasted too long, how do you justify alllllll of the things we talked about, all of the time we spent not fucking, the things we did for and with each other that had nothing at all to do with sex?

Maybe you liked who you were with me. Maybe you liked how you felt about yourself when you were with me. Obviously you liked how you felt inside me, but maybe even more so how we thought about the world, or the things we talked about in those lazy hours after the sex, or what I brought to your world view. It doesn’t really matter which of those is true or if it’s all of them or something else … the point is that it was more than sex.

No matter what you delude yourself into thinking I was to you, there remains one immutable fact. I was not your fiancé. You had someone else that you were BETRAYING from the moment you talked to me in that bar. Yes, you willfully betrayed my trust and I will go to my grave knowing that you knew exactly how I felt and it wasn’t just “a one night stand that lasted years.” But regardless of the semantics of what you did to me, what did you do to her? What the fuck did you do to her and why the fuck did you do it?

I am sad for me. I am enraged for her. You don’t deserve either of us. You never did.

“Too bad you had to have a better half
She’s not really my type
But I think you two are forever
And I hate to say it, but you’re perfect together

So fuck you
And your untouchable face
Fuck you
For existing in the first place”

Mood music: Untouchable Face – Ani DiFranco