...ode to broken things...

I think I am wondering why I bother. I think I am wondering why he does.

So two days ago my green-eyed inside spat sarcasm like dirty tobacco. Then I had the nerve to be stunned when A turned tail and ran. As if he should have stayed there and took it like a man, then repented for all of time (head bowed, humbled still). Actually, if I am not mistaken, that was the pretense under which I was bitter and spiteful and snide - I said he wasn't a man but a little boy, since he didn't act like one, age or not.

So there's a new girl. A maybe new girl. He goes through quite a few of those doesn't he? She's Persian and that bothers me more. I don't know why - only that I should be the only Persian one. I am unique, was unique, was special and that should be RECOGNIZED.

The problem with me is I suffer from Kuch's famous "too-nice syndrome". As a result, I apologized today (I actually apologized) for having been a bitch, to which he responded "it's all water under the bridge". Do you understand how angry that made me? That he had the nerve to tell me it was all water under the bridge, when months after the fact I have heard not one apology to which I may have said it was all water under the bridge? He has no right forgiving me, I do not need forgiveness. I need to give it. Providing it is ever deserved. So far, really has not been.

I'm a naive drama queen. Or something disconcertingly akin, in a land of make believe. I made believe I was important, or something. At some point during the summer I started make believing that I was fixed and whole and happy, but that is such a lie. Did anyone even buy it for a minute? I told myself I could get back in the game - instead, M hates me because he says I lied to him, led him on, used him and maybe I did but that wasn't the intent. The intent was to prove I was fixed, but clearly I wasn't then.

Am I now? Not really, not completely. But I could be and suddenly now there's the new one, the one we want to be a new one. And he tells me I'm lovely, and his arms are soft when he holds me, and I fit so seamlessly in the space between his neck and his left shoulder blade but all the same I want to whip out my ex resume and say "look, these are all the people who got to me first, and left me serrated like the edge of a bread knife".

I think at times I hope this doesn't start because what starts ends, and at least I can deal with limbo. Finite is a little more difficult.

This whole thing is increasingly getting a little more difficult. Life, love, days, all of it. Maybe it's Toronto. Maybe I could leave again. Maybe I should.