You know why I don’t actually regret the life I live even though I hate it most of the time? Because from each one of my ordeals, I can produce something to write about. Here’s a true story in poetic form.
A Recreated Friendship
I was twelve when he said, “Be mine.”
And I said, “I’ll be your Valentine.”
He said to me, “I love you.”
And I thought it was too good to be true.
Years later, he said, “I’m alone.”
And I said, “I’ll make you feel at home.”
Afterwards, he told me, “I’m broken.”
I promised that I’d help him become more open.
And so our friendship grew
Into something we neither knew
Nor understood, until it set us on fire,
And we fuelled it like the masochistic pyromaniacs we are.
And before I knew it, he’d put me on a pedestal
From which I could never possibly fall;
A statue which stood firmly frozen in time,
An artistic piece of his own design,
Designed to replace me as confidante
And so he danced a foolish dance.
He talked to his own silly version of me,
A silent goddess who could never speak.
And so he became idealistic
While ignoring the truth that was realistic.
Thus, he fell in love with the “me” of his psyche,
Who, unfortunately, I could never be like.
And when he finally deigned to tell me,
I was accused of inadequacy.
I said, “The actual me, or the one you invented?”
He said, “I may have been wrong to have ever pretended.”