I used to wait for you. Days would go by before I got a text or a hello, but I was so elated to finally hear from you that I ignored all the signs.
I forgot that I deserve better. I forgot that I actually need someone who’s going to uplift and adore me, worship me, love me completely, just as I loved you. But I’ll never get that from you.
I’ll never get the sweet note or that hug or the awkward hand holding. I’ll never be able to hold you again, to kiss you and run my fingers along your collar bone; you’re simply too cruel. I can’t deal with the insensitivity and the cutting jokes. I can’t deal with the degrading behavior you’re so trapped in.
You’re sorry? Well that’s wonderful, but I don’t want apologies. I want a change in behavior, a change in character, and I’m not going to ask that of you because I know you too well. This is who you are, this is how you are, and I’m not supposed to try and change that. I’m accepting you as You, and moving on.
“I have no money, no resources, no hopes. I am the happiest man alive. A year ago, six months ago, I thought I was an artist. I no longer think about it, I am. Everything that was literature has fallen from me. There are no more books to be written, thank God. This then? This is not a book. This is libel, slander, defamation of character. This is not a book, in the ordinary sense of the word. No, this is a prolonged insult, a gob of spit in the face of Art, a kick in the pants to God, Man, Destiny, Time, Love, Beauty… what you will. I am going to sing for you, a little off key perhaps, but I will sing. I will sing while you croak, I will dance over your dirty corpse… To sing you must first open your mouth. You must have a pair of lungs and a little knowledge of music. It is not necessary to have an accordion, or a guitar. The essential thing is to want to sing. This then is a song. I am singing.”—Henry Miller, “Tropic of Cancer” (via bellavita)