a text, written on 09.16.14, @ 9:54 pm, never sent:
I am not a priority in your life. Horses, friends, friends' kids, but most importantly, you, come first in your life. I am a hole to fill, a receptacle for your empty "I love you's." I can't do half-*** relationships. I deserve and have given you so much more than you have to give me. And you know it. It's a wicked trap, an intricate web magically woven overnight, glittering with diamonds. Look, but don't touch. Proceed with caution--there are whisper-fine, hidden threads that serve as strategic, invisible anchors. It is only morning dew: temporary water droplets reflecting and refracting borrowed brilliance from the sunlight as it slowly, imperceptibly, inevitably, shrinks them until they evaporate.
as exists only suspended on unsteady architecture; this is meant to attract and smother prey. Once disturbed, it seems to disappear. By morning, though, the web, again, magically, reappears, again anchored to the concrete below the same corner of the roof from which it was disturbed. Diamonds are the result of years of transformation, and no solid foundation can be constructed in one night. will play the game to get out of you the help I need for my new home but you no longer hold my heart. This is a game to you, a cheap pair of boots you wear when you have nothing better to put on your feet. You wanted *** and you got it. I can't sleep soundly with you; a lurking shadow of anticipation for deception and heartless pain keep me awake. I am a soldier awaiting the inevitable gunfire.
You are incapable of love.
A spider waits for prey, and I threw myself into your web. I called you. You chose not to bring me flowers. Publix is down the street from my office. You asked what you could do for me when I was sick; I requested a hug and flowers. You deposited ***** and gave me a five-dollar bracelet. I've worn it daily. I couldn't look at it anymore. I took it off tonight and put it out of my sight. You are a poisonous, sparkling black hole. I am drawn to your light; you are a moon that orbits my sunlight. You reflect, take, absorb, and I am the source of the sparkle in your tobacco-stained smile. Your own mother is a "****** hick;" how do I even stand a chance?
"Contempt loves the silence; it thrives in the dark, the fine, winding tendrils that strangle the heart."
I am a host; you are a parasite. I stay sick with or without you; I choose light, honesty, health, truth, now--you are losing your power over me. I am unraveling each fine, winding tendril as each dusty ***** in this familiar, aged stained glass fights for the light of youth. I will exhale.