So foolish of me to imagine having his baby. So foolish of me to imagine all of us, his friends and mine, all around the dinner table while his best friend blessed our food, and we all held hands. Traditions kept and new traditions begun. I could have added to that. The precious rituals of family. Stupid of me to imagine befriending his momma and imagining him telling his family that I was pregnant, and of the precious moment of me telling him I was pregnant too. Foolish of me to imagine taking care of him, that I would be able to fulfill a man like that enough to keep him home and faithful. It was so stupid of me to open myself up at all.
What kills me the most, is the humiliation in front of all of our friends. I don't know how to bounce back from that. I do not know how to bounce back from being humiliated in front of his friends and mine, by him. I have never been disrespected like that. I could deal with the unanswered questions, I could deal with a lot of things, but not that. Never that. He'd have to make a goddamned public apology to make up for that shit, I don't know, I just don't know. I wanted him to be my King, I thought he was made of that stuff, to have a Queen. I didn't see all of this coming, because he loved his strong momma.
He cursed me for my writing. Sometimes I feel it's a curse too. I have gotten so much better with speaking though, I've worked on that. Still, I'll always be better with the written word, than speaking. When I speak, I never feel heard. When I write or sing, I feel that even if no one is reading, that it's more permanent. It's there, it's set in stone and maybe someday, someone will have heard me.
I read this today of someone else wrote, of her love, and it makes me miss the "good" him even more, the brief glimpses that I saw of him. It makes me think of what could have been, what should have been, and it moved me so much:
"I woke twice last night. The first time, I wanted some water, and slowly pulled away from your arms where you were holding me. We’d fallen asleep that way. The moment you felt me slipping away, you pulled me closer. I pulled again and you pulled me closer again and held me tighter still. The stubborn refusal to let me go, even as you slept seemed magical, almost undeserved. Who is this man who cherishes me so he can’t let me go, even in sleep? I finally rose and watched you, drinking my water in the door way. It was so cold, it wasn’t long before I climbed back to you. The room was freezing, but your arms — those arms that can so easily pick me up — were warmer than the midday sun.
In the morning, when I gave a start in my sleep trapped in a nightmare where my father’s corpse awaited me in murky waters, you woke me kissing my eyelids. You said my name, kissing them over and over until the dream faded away and there was only warmth.
You can psychoanalyze that. I prefer to spend my morning sipping coffee and reflecting on how fragile yet powerful this thing we’ve built between us is." (http://gutsymmetries.tumblr.com/)
'Magical'. That's the word I used for us. But the words 'cherish', or 'treasure', no, I never got those from him. Maybe they don't teach that in his part of the north; how to 'cherish' and 'treasure' women. It's just another question that he might not have been able to give me an answer to. It's just all very sad, from hope to sadness.
What kills me the most, is the humiliation in front of all of our friends. I don't know how to bounce back from that. I do not know how to bounce back from being humiliated in front of his friends and mine, by him. I have never been disrespected like that. I could deal with the unanswered questions, I could deal with a lot of things, but not that. Never that. He'd have to make a goddamned public apology to make up for that shit, I don't know, I just don't know. I wanted him to be my King, I thought he was made of that stuff, to have a Queen. I didn't see all of this coming, because he loved his strong momma.
He cursed me for my writing. Sometimes I feel it's a curse too. I have gotten so much better with speaking though, I've worked on that. Still, I'll always be better with the written word, than speaking. When I speak, I never feel heard. When I write or sing, I feel that even if no one is reading, that it's more permanent. It's there, it's set in stone and maybe someday, someone will have heard me.
I read this today of someone else wrote, of her love, and it makes me miss the "good" him even more, the brief glimpses that I saw of him. It makes me think of what could have been, what should have been, and it moved me so much:
"I woke twice last night. The first time, I wanted some water, and slowly pulled away from your arms where you were holding me. We’d fallen asleep that way. The moment you felt me slipping away, you pulled me closer. I pulled again and you pulled me closer again and held me tighter still. The stubborn refusal to let me go, even as you slept seemed magical, almost undeserved. Who is this man who cherishes me so he can’t let me go, even in sleep? I finally rose and watched you, drinking my water in the door way. It was so cold, it wasn’t long before I climbed back to you. The room was freezing, but your arms — those arms that can so easily pick me up — were warmer than the midday sun.
In the morning, when I gave a start in my sleep trapped in a nightmare where my father’s corpse awaited me in murky waters, you woke me kissing my eyelids. You said my name, kissing them over and over until the dream faded away and there was only warmth.
You can psychoanalyze that. I prefer to spend my morning sipping coffee and reflecting on how fragile yet powerful this thing we’ve built between us is." (http://gutsymmetries.tumblr.com/)
'Magical'. That's the word I used for us. But the words 'cherish', or 'treasure', no, I never got those from him. Maybe they don't teach that in his part of the north; how to 'cherish' and 'treasure' women. It's just another question that he might not have been able to give me an answer to. It's just all very sad, from hope to sadness.