Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Last night I had a tearful conversation with a friend. In the topics we covered, we both mentioned feeling compelled to communicate, our situations similar and not.
She loves a man who does not love her back, or will not. He was there last night, eating his ice cream and looking over our heads, stepping away to talk on the phone. Leaving early. Never when you ask, is what he was saying to her, only when I want it.
And, beyond reason, warnings, attempts, and sanity, she will not let him go. In the middle of the night, she sends messages to him, desperate for .... anything? in return. She's written letters describing her impossible and broken heart. She delivers him constant praise. Adores his brilliance. Excuses that fact he's a fucking dick.
She is always reiterating herself. Sometimes with pictures, sometimes with drawings.
My compulsion is different. I'm compelled not to say anything for as long as I possibly can. He got a burst of it, rushing out of the cracked dam, but he can't know now how often I think of him. How sick I make myself. He knows so little; I know even less.