You’ve told me that you loved me and to “go to hell” with equal passion.
You’ve explained to me over and over how important I am to you but your actions make it clear that the one you love most of all is yourself.
You made me feel beautiful, loved, cherished and I had hope for our future; you made me feel stupid, worthless and so very alone and I had no hope for anything.
You told me so many times to go away and leave you alone for my love, my attention was suffocating to you; then, when you felt like it, you insisted on my love, my attention, even when I was too tired, too sick, too broken to give it.
You would try when it pleased you to and my hopes would soar; you’d get tired of trying and I’d find myself alone, my dreams dying in the dust.
You told others you were glad I was your wife; you told me how much beneath you I was in every way possible.
You tell me that you are sorry for all of the times, all of the ways that you have hurt me and then you tell me that you never meant to hurt me at all: you just “weren’t thinking” you say and thereby mitigating any and all apologies.
You’ve fooled me so many times: thinking you’d changed I’d throw caution to the wind and trust you; only you hadn’t changed and my heart, and my mind, were broken anew.
I’ve lived so long with the shame of what you’ve said to me, with the humiliation of what I let myself endure in order to please you, with the bone-aching loneliness of never being able to trust.
What am I to think of you when you are day and night? black and white? friend and foe?
What am I to think of me if I see this truth and just ignore it? If I know but do nothing? If I bury me and let you continue to hurt me?