I’m sorry.
I can no longer be the footstool you stand upon to stretch and grab the loving and trusting parts of you that your past partners have stowed away on the top shelf, in a successful attempt at preventing you from reaching your true potential.
No longer will I be the plastic oxygen mask keeping you from drowning in your own insecurities, nor the coal you use to fuel your own pressing need to feel appreciated; I’m done.
My whole life I’ve felt as if I was starving, always malnourished when it comes to love and forever hungry for the companionship of someone who could see past my flaws. Someone graceful to my errors.
I’ve spent years craving for the taste of a seasoned being; someone riddled with enough flavor to jolt the sour pang of loneliness and self pity from the taste buds of my life.
And yet you were bittersweet.
Suddenly you were here, dressed in convincing sheepskin and calmly hiding your ears and teeth so you didn’t scare your “prey” away. And in my blissful ignorance I learned to look past your claws, tune out your howls, and shrug off your bites even though with each passing day the growing danger to my emotional safety became more imminent.
Yet your thick coat of deception and lies became a bit too heavy for your frame and – as you shed your skin – I realized exactly who was sitting before me, smiling ear to ear as if nothing had changed. As if you weren’t the force that keeps my heart beating and the bane of my existence at the exact same time.
I love you … but I loathe your lack of love.
