Wretched is the state of love sometimes, though we cling to it violently anyway, for years. She needs you, but she can only understand your own need, your own love, when you sacrifice yourself completely. You do not love, she thinks, unless you give. You do not love enough, she thinks, unless you give everything. How can this not, despite your best intentions, your fondest wishes, your own naïve delusions, encourage her to slowly fall apart, to follow a path of illnesses and injuries, real and imagined, which require you to prove, again and again, your commitment, your love, your willingness to subsume yourself into her?
This is not, no matter what you thought when you ran away together so many years ago, laughing, giddy with the adventure of escape, this is not the love that the poets sang through the centuries. No matter what you went through before, you did not know then, but you have since learned, what desperate human need looks like.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Here's my response to Trifecta's Week Sixteen Challenge, in which I brutally abuse the poor, innocent comma: