Broken Doll

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.