There you go, calling me again.

When does it end? I left, I'm gone, but damn, you keep this up.

You want some sort of therapy session, some of my time so you can wash yourself clean. But what do I owe you? You stole my dignity, my security, my ability to trust. You caused me to question my worth, my very existance. You warped my self-image until I was no longer recognizable. When it was all over, you walked away with the best stuff and I left with less than I came with.

And I stayed around for it all.

I played the role.

I made excuses for you.

I fell for your tears.

I listened to your stories.

I believed your lies.

Why should I believe that this time you'll be truthful? Why should I believe that this is the real story? And what makes you think that I even care to hear the real story anymore?

But this isn't for me, is it?

Let me go! You can't just show up every four or five months, send my mind into a tailspin, and walk away feeling better about yourself because you've let me in on another one of your secrets. This need you have, this desire to keep me somehow involved, is masochistic.

It's not about you anymore. This is me, this is my space, my time, and it does not intersect with yours. I'm not doing you any favors. You're feeling guilty, unsettled? Live with it. Hell if I'm going to assist you in your healing process. God knows you did nothing to make it easier on me.

Oh, but this is the real story, right? Not just another slightly varied fairy tale. Well, I don't need your truth. It's too liquid; it fits in whatever shape you need at the moment and can be poured from one vessel to the next, to the next, to the next...

Don't you understand? The book is closed, and to me, you do not exist.

I would like nothing more than to hear your sweet voice on the telephone, telling me what I want to hear:

I love you. I've loved you as long as you've loved me (damn it's been six months now). Everything I've said before is vapor, all I want is you.

Right. Back to reality. Back to hearing two hour screaming lectures about how I should like his new girlfriend. I'm wondering why he doesn't understand the reasons for hating that bitch.

He used to call me everyday, sometimes just to say good-bye. Damn I miss that. Now it's occasional calls, mostly to retun mine, although I haven't called him in over a week. He called me today to tell me his SAT score. I had to resist all impulses to show him up with my perfect 800 on the math. I adopted an indifferent attitude and wanted to tell him:

" Why do you still call me? Dont you know that any kind of contact with you kills me? Go fuck yourself and stop calling my house!!!"

Maybe next time.

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