I do all I can to forget.

I harden my heart
and steel my mind
against the moments and memories
that batter against
all my defenses.
but the dull weapons I use
to remove myself
from this reality forced upon me -
they are weak and of no use,
no use against
the piercing words spoken -
first to woo and then to forsake -
the roving hands attached
to the same arms that pushed me away
in the same breath.

I can not forget.

and maybe this is the real reason
I hold on to a bitter heart:
it is the only strength I have.

I mean,
what kind of woman am I?
that I would let a man I loved so much
who found the strings that led
to the deepest part of me
take the things that made me most alive?
but no, he didn't take them.
I gave them to him, forced them on him,
and died when he left
out of sheer need to survive.
what kind of woman am i?

the kind who holds on to a bitter heart
as if she were holding onto life.

Every time I look up,
I look for you.
Every letter I open
Every call I receive.
I hold on to a desperate hope
That you'll have realized you love me
That your regret of letting me go
Will overcome your stubbornness.
But that's assuming you feel some regret...

you never come, and
the letters are never from you,
and you never call.
I continue, alone,
Hoping with an empty hope,
Dreaming an empty dream.
I wake up every day from my stupor
knowing I'm still on my own
that all it will ever be is just pretending.
But I still look for you,
I still wait for you
even if it means I'll be alone.

does it matter that I miss you?
does it matter that I still think you're funny?
does it matter that I still love your smile,
the way you talk
the way you laugh?

does it matter that I still love you?
does it matter that I'm sorry?
does it matter that I can name a million things I would have done differently?

what does it matter?
what does any of it matter?
none of it made any difference.
what did I need to be so that you would have kept loving me?
cooler, more distant?
thinner, or less flippant?
or perhaps not so opinionated and messy.

but what does it matter?

I remember that time
riding in the car with you
when you were so excited to be with me,
you called ours a healthy relationship.
There was another time
and we were in the car
and you told me about a girl from your past -
how you didn't answer when she called
because you thought she was trying to start something.

I was glad then.  I was glad I was different.

But now, to you, I'm just like her.
You have put me in the same category.
Now you put on your defenses when I'm around.
You hide yourself behind your fortified walls.
And I stand on the other side,
remembering what it was like to stand with you.

I run my hands along them.
And they feel so cold.
I stare at those walls.  

I keep staring,
my heart sinking, anxiety creeping
creeping up through my skin.
I dig my hands into the earth,
searching for something to hold on to
as I stare at those walls, those bitter walls,
remembering what it was like to be with you inside them.

It was a surprise to see him.  He appeared there, as if materializing from her thoughts.  And his shirt matched her dress exactly.  It was a stab to the heart to see him at that play.  The play they had talked about seeing when they were still together.  It was as if fate were mocking her, reminding her of how things never turn out the way you want them to.

She was standing in a group of women when he walked up to them, just to be polite, and her roommate gave her a knowing look.  She voiced the bitter thought about his shirt matching her dress as he engaged one of the women in polite conversation, but she immediately regretted it.  Had he heard?  He made no indication that he had, but she thought he had seen that look her roommate gave her.  She wondered what he was thinking - would he think  she had made her roommate hate him, that she had wanted that?

He started to walk away, and her heart started to sink.  But in that next moment, without even being aware of making the decision, she followed him to the refreshment stand.  She just wanted to talk to him, without anyone else around. But it was an unsatisfying conversation.  She could feel every defense he had, used against her.  In those moments she knew she still wanted him back, but in those same moments knew it didn't matter.  This event was only further confirmation that in real life, fairy tales end cruelly and true love was a reality reserved for other, more deserving girls.  This event would only show up in her long history of hearts broken and hopes dashed.  

When he walked back to his seat, away from her, she knew, once again, the pain of love unrequited.

I pushed so hard to get an answer
the truth was that

nothing you could say would make me free
nothing you could say would change a thing.
Nothing you could say would make it alright

that I wanted you when you didn't want me.