Communication

I find I can't quite talk to you anymore.

Not the way we used to talk anyway.

Yeah, I plaster a smile on my face, and try to act all merry and gay. But that's a shell.

I wonder how you do it. Maybe you're used to it, but I'm not.

Maybe that's a good thing. Maybe that's gone. And I shouldn't be wishing for something that's past.

Maybe this is for the best.

'Cos lately I've been finding things out about you that I wish I did not. That I wish you had the courage to tell me. But you hide, like you've been doing for such a long time. And still you do.

A friend asked me today:

Do you need him? The answer is NO. I need no man. I want one. But I don't need one. And I sure as hell don't need you, for anything. Despite what you say.

Do you want to communicate with him? I can't quite answer. Which isn't good. I MISS communicating with you, I LIKED communicating with you, but my world wouldn't come crumbling down if I don't talk to you.

So I guess the answer is NO.

I suppose it can only get easier after this. Especially since we hardly talk anymore.

Go back to her. You can't even say her name in front of me.

Each time she calls, and I'm there, you'll leave, and wear a guilty expression when you get back after your 30 second conversation. Don't ask me how I know who it is.

I think you take me for a bigger fool than I am.

Never insult my intelligence. Never underestimate my capabilities. I know people you know nothing about. And I've got friends you'll never guess I have.

She may believe you, though I doubt she does. But if she wants you, she can have you.

I do not want someone who doesn't want me.

And I do not want someone who's selfish enough to cling to both because he wants the best of both worlds.

You want her just 'cos she's there, and she's rich enough to buy you things. You want me because I'm the only one who'd teach you to be a man.

I'm sorry. After all that's transpired, I don't think I can. I don't have faith in you. It's burst apart into a million little shrapnels. And each shrapnel is embedded deep in me. Each time I move, it stings like a mother-fucking wound opening up all over again.

Don't get me wrong. This is merely a self-preservation defensive mechanism.

But it's personal. 'Cos every damn thing is personal. We may call our day-to-day living business, but it's always, always personal. 'Cos it affects us. Always.