Broken Doll

I can almost taste his tongue in my mouth.

I can almost feel his fingertips tracing lines down my back.

I can almost feel his hand gripping my hip, pulling me close.

I can almost feel his weight on my back, pressing me down.

I can almost hear his voice murmuring against my ear. I can almost hear his hunger.

His teeth. His voice. His hands. His smell.

Goddess, his smell. Dark, heady, primal. Even now I could still recognize him blindfolded.

And every time I think I can get to a point of hating him enough to walk away, this all comes crashing down on me again. How much I love him. How much I miss him. How much I need to belong to him.

How many times have I said goodbye to you and it still won’t let me go?

I love you. I love you. I love you. It can’t end like this. It can’t end like this. It can’t end like this.

Once the anger subsides I sink into depression. I’m not really angry at Meg anymore, though for a while I was getting some perverse giggles out of coming up with ways to fuck with her head. Perhaps a demonstration of exactly how much information she leaves on my server logs every time she visits. Or, since she’s dying to know what I think of her and David, posting a bunch of bullshit on how often David and I tryst behind her back. Har.

Instead, I wake up this morning and start to cry. Yes, I get it that she’s insecure. But you know what? I’m not an insentient object called “The Ex-Girlfriend.” It hurts to be treated as less than human. It hurt when she was doing it three months ago, six months ago, however-fucking-many months ago, and it hurts now. Especially when I was trying so damn hard, when David was still speaking to me, not to step on her toes.

It took me a while to figure out why exactly it bothered me so much. But I finally found words for it this morning:

You know what this feels like? “Hey Kat, we’re going to exclude you in every possible way from our lives, but we still feel perfectly entitled to dig into yours as much and as often as we like.”

I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t fucking WANT to deal with this. Letting her know I was on to her didn’t work — so what am I supposed to do? Tattle on her? To whom? Is this fucking third grade?

Fuck.

“Anyone who can touch you can hurt you or heal you. Anyone who can reach you can love you or leave you.”

It’s been a while since I’ve been able to put my thoughts into anything approaching coherent English. Still can’t, really. Angry, hurt, bitter. Meg is back (trying to) read my blog again since right after the holiday. At least twice a day, sometimes up to seven (!) times in a 24-hour period. And one has got to wonder why she cares so damn much about what some chick who has absolutely no part or influence in her life thinks of her.

It’s one thing to suspect she’s no good for him — at least that can be shoved away denied and written off as wishful thinking on my part. Quite another to see it confirmed. She doesn’t trust him even now and clearly never will. Which means he’s going to get hurt a thousand times over before she’s done.

For me, too. She’s not going to see anything she doesn’t know already. But the intent behind it, this weird emotional voyeurism, pisses me off — because I know for damn sure she’s not here to offer compassion or understanding (or hell, even indifference) for what she sees. She knows it’s wrong and that it serves no purpose yet she does it anyway. And I’m sick of watching these supposed adults act like 7-year-olds with impulse-control problems. And I’m SURE as hell sick of having to clean up the messes they leave behind them.

How can I accept something that is absolutely unacceptable? It’s a trainwreck and there’s no way that any of this can turn out well.

Too late. Far too late. And I’m disconnecting. I’m going beyond feeling numb and into feeling nothing at all. I look at his photo and see the face of a stranger. Everything he brought to life inside me is dead.

Too late.

And what I absolutely can’t figure out, is why in hell I’m still here.