Notebook 055

To give yourself up so wholesomely is disgusting. To scatter up on legs so bowed and shattered, smouldering the tiny callous flakes of your burning eager skin. Your enthusiasm suffocates and I can’t help but see your passion as naïve. I understand my dear that your neck is at my feet and I empathise that this is all you can emit. I consider it a burden. Your thwarting direction to everything outward from yourself is pathetic. I cannot feel for the level of your grovel and I will not be the goal of your extended wobbling reach. I give you no leeway because of your years, and I cannot ever believe that your ardency is anything more than a fickle whim. The desperation taints your pretty eyes so please desist in gorging a scar un-needed. It doesn’t make you deep. It doesn’t make you live. And it definitely doesn’t make you any more like me. I can perceive your answer as yes; you would change anything for this. You would take what was needed and give to ne’er receive. You’d be the Juliet for my Romeo. I don’t want you Juliet. I don’t want any Juliet. This is not a fucking fairy-tale and your elaborate bravado doesn’t make it one. This is divorce, beatings, mind-games and gang-rape and you’d better get used to it. Selfless heroism isn’t welcomed when I’m too stubborn to accept your gentle palm. To put it plainly; you care too much, it reminds me of myself, and I feel sick.