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A Little Scar

“I’m indifferent at worst.”

Before the man I’m with now, I had “dated” a few other men. In my own wierd ways, I “fell” for them all. I attached myself to them, idealized them, forgave them for unforgivable acts, regretted everthing until they came crawling back and promised me the world, and after that, I regretted some more.

“I’m such a fucking idiot.”

There must be something wrong with that girl…you know…the one who deliberately sets herself up for more pain and more failure. I gave each and every one of these people a piece of me, and it never was once returned. Perhaps I’m stored atop some dustybookself, or worse, tucked away in some box underneath an old bed, long lost; forgotten.

Every storybook romance has a handsome prince and a beautiful princess who fall in love and live happily ever after. How does my story end when the beginning and middle is a bit tragic?

I suppose if I had to go through it all again, every last unreturned phone call, snide remark, heartless stare, I would because I’m with who I’m supposed to be with (at the very least for the time being). Kissing frogs is one thing, taking them home and denying the warts is another.

“So what, do you hate me or something? Why do you keep doing this to me?”

“Hate is a strong word. I’m indifferent at worst.”

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. Thanks for refusing to let this scar heal. I wish I was tucked away in someone’s shoebox right about now.

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