frustrated...

He thinks he knows me

"I read people well"
and thinking to unseat this bespeckled Freud
i provoke an analysis of just what it is
i am feeling in this circumstance.

and we begin to discuss the demise of what was our love
dispassionately,
he said she said,
like pouring over ancient war strategies
history dryly intellectualized,
like the fall of Ceasar's Rome
until the final version in no way resembles actual events.

On to accounting and finance he says
"You feel cheated out of your investment"
and I think, my God! (Oh if there really was one, he has a fucking great sense of humor!)
positioned like some tight ass accountant
who is disappointed in his lost earnings
poured into poorly chosen Roth IRA.
and I pray that this isn't really his impression of my feelings.

For while it is true he usually is quite perceptive,
he is way off on this one.

what i feel is different,
entirely and totally.
Cheated yes, definitely,
but more like a woman feels when she is awakened at midnight by
uncomfortable police officer who squirms on
front steps staring at his shoes mumbling "Miss, I'm sorry to have to tell you this,
but we found your lover dead over off Highway 99,
seems he was driving a little reckless and missed that curve above San Ysidro"

and as my legs crumble
now i the silence of this room,
his words resonate flatly, with this same death verdict.
transformed into equally fatal realities.

and i am unable to speak, the air
stolen from my lungs,
and the pain stabs at my chest and makes me feel totally helpless.

my sense of loss coming not from what I have given,
even if he doesn't realize it,
my gifts, whatever they may have been,
were just that,
unconditional,
not weighted with their own self worth.

i feel like someone i loved has suddenly died
stolen away before we ever had a chance to turn all the pages, explore all the streets and avenues of one another.
helpless,
i can do nothing to turn back the clock
to give pause, long enough to at least let him know just how much he has meant to me.

in this moment i crave for the simplicity of childhood,
when daddys could make all problems go away,
with a simple touch or word
where the most i had to loose was my barrettes when playing in the sand box.

but then again, i think i was five when i learned
that bombs and grenades come in many shapes,
some nothing more than words, but their shrapnel just as sharp.

and so i sit and wonder,
the leading lady of this production,
how close to the truth will the screenwriter come
when he is through writing our story.

i don't want to be a characature, melodramatic and plasticized
an grotesque cartoon,
barely a sketch of who i am
it is the only story i would ask that he lay down his pen
and pick up mine.