I decided that I was ‘done’. How hard could it be for some one to respond with a reassuring word or a phrase?
I’m sure he had the ability at some point. I take the time to lay my feelings out there but I get nothing from him. It’s just as hard for me as it is for him. I could barely, willingly touch another human being till not-so-long ago.
I guess he does have something to say when he just does have something to say. But what about when I want him to have something to say? Why is ‘all in good time,’ all about his ‘good time’? Why is the tick-tock of my watch irrelevant?
I’m done. Done like that piece of steak sizzling on his, oh-so-awesome titanium frying pan. Can some one turn the exhaust on? I’m coughing away, but he’s got those broad shoulders and beautiful lungs that can breathe in beauty to a great extent. Of course, except for the tiniest whiff of smoke from a cigarette. What a man at times. And what a wuss at other times…
I’m so done. So he slops me on to a plate, with a side of mashed potatoes and honey-glazed-steamed vegetables. Classy, he is, tenderly slicing me into edible sizes with his fork and his sharpened steak knife. Devouring me with mouthfuls veggies. Crunch-munch, crunch-munch. I’ve always been a delicious treat, he’s told me on several occasions.
I wish I was that piece of meat. At least then I could have been ‘done’, devoured, and I could get this whole ordeal over with. When he slops his head on the plate that my shoulders are, I cradle him, and wrap his words in a motherly blanket that I didn’t even know I possessed. But when slop myself, the clock needs to be on his time.
The fear of being alone does not exist. And there is no fear of being with him either. So what must be done, must be done. I pull out the sharp blades of paper. “The Script”
“The Script?” he reads out aloud.
“Yes,” I say. “Eat this for dessert.”
I know what he’s going to say. Adorably, and with genuine love, he’s going to tell me I’m funny, and a bit of a nut-job. Oh so adorably. Before he can though, I cut him, off. I told you it was sharp. Paper cuts sting. Never underestimate the sharpness of words, the words that he will now know to say.
It’s not a bloody mess. Just about as messy as the left-overs of a juicy piece of steak. I scrub the mess clean, and put him to bed. It takes about 24 hours to digest all that ‘read’ meat. We sleep for hours. Me within him, him, within me.
Next morning, he turns to me and says, “That Script has changed me.’
I smile, and lie, sort of, “I always loved you the way you are, and will love you with all your changes.”
Then and there, I begin to hate myself. Not such an unfamiliar feeling, I must say. Not something I would mind being unfamiliar with, I must add.
He has become the epitome of perfection. And I test it again and again.
“Am I fat?”
“You are the ultimate expression of beauty,” he responds.
“I feel insecure. I have a long way to go. You have enough on your shoulders, and then you need to deal with me.”
“I don’t have to deal with you, I want to “deal” with out. I want to be nothing but yours. I want to take all your pain away and be the balm that will heal your wounds. And I should be damned if I add another scar to your beautiful body.”
I won’t lie. Sometimes I savor these scripted words. He read it well. He bled for it well. He has learned. Or has he? I say more pathetic things, to get more scripted answers from him. But the sweetness of this lasts less longer than the self hatred that has found itself at home in the old planet that my ego is. He has the perfect answer to every imperfect piece of rubbish I choose to utter.
I can’t live with him, not this way.
I made a mess out of a human. I’m done. Gosh, not again.
“I’ll be back.”
“I’ll join you.”
“No, it’s fine. Stay.”
“Girl, why would I want to stay here with out you?”
SHUT UP! I hold myself. It’s not his fault.I cleaned my mess once. I need to clean it again. “Can you help me dig through the garbage before the trucks come to take it away? I need to find the pieces off you that I through away.”
“I’d dig through sewage for you.”
…..We better make this quick.