Stuffed Grape Leaves
It started out with being perplexed about your reasoning and not quite buying your explanations for decisions made or not-yet-made. When the explanations finally began holding rational weight, philosophical confusion morphed into doubt. I stopped believing the premise you presented as factual. My utility could only exist in your head, my services only redeemable on your timeline. And, assuming this part was real, the rest of the world that placed demands on you the size of pianos, interrupting Marta buses, and tractor trailers gets away with it.
Yet I, who only ever wanted you to accept my generosity without having to hoist it into your lap, am the one who gets punished for my baseball, mini-cupcake, dust bunny-sized invitations for your attention as somehow too much for you to handle. Oblige everyone else who pelts you with task after task...and exercise self-isolation with the only one you have the luxury of disappointing.
If that's even really what's happening. Or if you found another escape room and are waiting for me to stop talking to you because I'm fed up with feeling like I don't exist in your mind anymore. Declarations of love, as genuine as they were meant when they were felt, are barely convincing me to believe that you're just even sadder and more broken than I am, and only after letting you alone long enough could you possibly begin to be a facsimile of the person I adored when we sent daily emails for three months. And you made time to see me even when you had the same pianos, interrupting buses, and tractor trailers wanting a piece of your time. Was it a fluke? A wrinkle in time?
What kills me is wondering if I'd rather know the real you or the version that you show out of duty? And I'll never know all I want to know about you because you refuse to let me see into your thought processes.
Yet I, who only ever wanted you to accept my generosity without having to hoist it into your lap, am the one who gets punished for my baseball, mini-cupcake, dust bunny-sized invitations for your attention as somehow too much for you to handle. Oblige everyone else who pelts you with task after task...and exercise self-isolation with the only one you have the luxury of disappointing.
If that's even really what's happening. Or if you found another escape room and are waiting for me to stop talking to you because I'm fed up with feeling like I don't exist in your mind anymore. Declarations of love, as genuine as they were meant when they were felt, are barely convincing me to believe that you're just even sadder and more broken than I am, and only after letting you alone long enough could you possibly begin to be a facsimile of the person I adored when we sent daily emails for three months. And you made time to see me even when you had the same pianos, interrupting buses, and tractor trailers wanting a piece of your time. Was it a fluke? A wrinkle in time?
What kills me is wondering if I'd rather know the real you or the version that you show out of duty? And I'll never know all I want to know about you because you refuse to let me see into your thought processes.