I stare at the divide between the two versions of self, and paint the schism in a colour called #melodrama. Into the chasm I pour all my needs and wants and desires because I just don’t fucking want them anymore.
They haunt me, taunt me, contort the self I once knew into a vacuous clone whose only viable thought is me, me, me.
Within them I see the person I once
‘I’m not sure I know you anymore’ I say to my reflective self as
she stands, juggling her
desires deftly in her
Callously, she throws me one, and, caught off guard I watch in slow motioned defeat as it shatters in agonizing bliss at my delusionary feet. I cry, deeply hurt by the apparent injustice, lament searing it’s pain into my caustic tears.
I didn’t fucking want it anyway, I scream.
In self, in Him, and guilt dogs every single step.
Brutal irony, even this menopause isn’t my own, my body accepted the invader as a singular, lonely
Neither are my thoughts my own, their shape altered, the pieces don’t quite fit, they lead me down paths I did not consent to travel. A huge part of what made me, Me, was taken away in a very literal over night, and resentment fuels every word that rushes to escape.
To lose the self you feel you were only beginning to become acquainted, to fear that your desire is now chemically silenced is akin to a bereavement. My other self is uncomfortably numb, because of this chemical I’ve named, and which induces #melodrama.
I desire Him to hurt me.
Not just hurt.
Torture, taunt, take the pain and feed it to me, piece by choking piece far beyond that which I can take just so my tears are the result of something else other than #melodrama.