I don’t think I can be in a relationship again. The care that is given, the nurture, the willingness to listen. Only, only. Only to be used, to be abandoned, abused, thrown down and destroyed, to realize that you are not someone to be loved, but only a fetish. Something that only someone with a fetish would ever be even remotely attracted to. To know that, and to realize that. Only now, have I realized. How long has it taken me to know this. Why? I should have realized it sooner. I live only to be ruined. Cracked beyond repair. To have my hopes risen. To have a hug so perfect, so comforting. As if it would take all the cracks and repair them. But they have been taped hastily with duct tale and when that is ripped, it is painful. Mind-numbingly painful. To be in such a hole of despair, that the moment a hand is stretched down, you do not question but to grab a hold of it. You forget to question. To ask if that hand is here to save you, or if it is simply wondering what the hole was for. So when you forget to ask, and you grab a hold of that hand, your heart full of hope, and your eyes only seeing the escape lit open for you and when that hand draws back in disgust, shock, fear, you can only despair. After all, you simply forgot to ask.
I’ve read somewhere that an oxen and a crab are the perfect match. Is that so true? Or was that there, simply to make me happy for just one glimpse of life. Two hours. That was all. It happened all over again. And will continue to be so. The oxen will ride off, away from the danger as the crab is caught in a net, cooked and served. A delicious feast for the unsuspecting oxen.
Has my waiting stopped? Will some one help me? For once. To lift me out of this hole an dguide me albeit a short while? Do not get your hopes up. They will be ruined.
Thank you. For two hours, I was happier than I had been for a very long time. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart. A wonderful birthday present out of simply one other. A prickly cactus. So thank you Mr. Oxen. Thank you for two hours of purely just being able to relax again. It was a blissful moment away from the harsh reality of a life so ruined by a so-called love. Thank you.
– Ms. Crab
Am I done yet? Learning the same lesson over and over again. I get it. I get it. I’ve learned it through and through now. Nobody will want this. Those hopes will forever be raised and crushed like an ant underneath a boot. I get it. So stop the lesson. Let the clock cease it’s ticking. So let me be. Let there be a happiness. A hug strong enough to cease the worries. A hand that will hold mine, so perfectly. A thumb that will rub away the worries. A small, reassuring squeeze. But let it last longer than a moment. Longer. Just a little bit. To let me climb out of a hole and walk a path. To see daylight. Someone help me. Hold me. Guide me. I am calling. I am waiting.
Happy birthday to me.
I am made to feel guilty on a daily basis.
There is only one person that can calm my mother. Explain things to her. Tell her the thoughts of my father and sister without her getting mad at any of them. Show her, explain, calm her. Help them get what they want. But what happens when that one person, that sole person has things inside of her heart that are bursting to be told. Inner thoughts and wants, so desperate to be shown. But she cannot say it herself. That is not the way her mother works. Her mother must have things told to her by someone else. One cannot simply tell it on her own. But the other two. They cannot say anything, without mother getting upset. So what can the sole person do? Harbor her thoughts, her wants, her craving heart. Keep them locked away in a safe, deep inside of her soul. Nothing to be leaked, to be told. All are secrets. Never to be shared. Not to the person those secrets most want to be shared with.
I have come to term with the fact that I am indeed ugly. Friends and family cannot be trusted. They will forever attempt to tell me no, I am not. They will say I have big eyes, nice hair, nice hands. They will point out things. More like, they will try. But it is not true. It never will be. The first daughter is the prettiest. The second one? Never. I am the second one. I am not pretty. Even mother thinks so. She never says it. But it has been alluded to before. I know so. I am not pretty. I am pathetically ugly. That is the end of that.