Shatterglass

And sometimes she hates him, hateshateshates him, hateshateshates him with that sick, that hollowed out feeling, that empty, lonely suction wandering around her stomach.

And it would be worse, much worse, except she has known this feeling before, known it day after day for so long - but called it by another name.

She has already woven his figure from a tapestry of memories, learned the map of his hands so well she can rebuild them in her mind. She had done it before to hold him close, but now she does it to him for being away.

And it seems like she has watched and watched, and waited and waited forever.

She's spent eons curled into the blue-backed couch with that sick, that hollowed out feeling, that empty, lonely suction wandering around her stomach -

(Because love is hate)

She's wanted him, and watched him walk away, and wondered if he would ever come back.

And he walked away (again and again), trampling on what little self-respect she had left, and she feels his absence with every step and every breath she takes.

And she knows, as she did then, that, unlike her, unlike this, part of him would be relieved if she left. If she turned away.

(Because hate is heartbreak)

Yeah, part of him would be relieved, part of him might even shunt her to the door, smiling, nearly happy, but she knows if she left, if she walked away, it would destroy him.

If she left, he would break.

He would shatter, and she wants to ask him that one time, Wouldn't you shatter? Wouldn't you just shatter?

As much as she needs to hold on, to not give up, he needs it more.

And, so, however many times he walked away, she held on. She waited.

Now, sitting here, faced with the sting of remembrance, and the endless blaring of her Dad's telly, stuffing her face ceaselessly with caramel popcorn over the conspicuous swell of her stomach, she feels sick and twisted up with fury and rage and sadness.

She's trying to turn away from the promise of his memory, the need that she can't hide, the frustration, the lonely ticktock of a clock that seems to measure each and every second she has left to wonder whywhywhy? whywhynow? whydidyougo?

Once again, she is chasing after his mirage in some huge, endless desert of nothing.

And once again she feels how the sun burns, and how he burns - and sometimes makes her glow.

(Because heartbreak is love)

And so she waits.