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Broken. - "love is but a shadow of hate; trying to forget its painfull past" [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
kristina with a k...kthx

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Broken. [Sep. 16th, 2008|07:08 pm]
kristina with a k...kthx
First, please, keep this a secret. I am confiding in you. For some unknown reason, I must explain myself to something. I choose this. About two years ago I sank into love. He dumped me. And I was beside myself on what to do. I attempted to keep unexposed, and safe. And, one horrendous and beautiful night I went to Art After Dark on the first Friday of the month of March. I wrote my name, and phone number on a guest list. I walked around alone, went home. Two days later I got a phone call, the voice on the other side of the receiver came from a man named...well, it's a secret, and at the time he wouldn’t tell me his name, and so I called him Henry. He desired to state that I was one of the most stunning people he has ever observed and that my presence was potent. I thought it a joke. A good jolly. I was dazed, intrigued and simply flattered that he was serious. We played this game of hearts for months. Only recently did I find out he was soon to be wed. He used me. He got what he wanted and ran for the altar with another woman. Funny. I don’t know who to tell. Or what to do. I am feeble. I feel broken, dull. My luster lost to the lure of a lie. It cracks my spine, I am lame, stuck in a mire, my legs can’t take me on. How can I endure this? I was already a mess. Now, I’m up in smoke. I avoid the places I know he’s been. The gallery. The coffee houses we’d sit at and draw. The trees we’d sit under. I no longer wear his pin. How can I be so stupid? How could he pierce right through me. So sharp, so cunning. What guile! I’m sorry for telling you this, I just need to tell someone. It’s best. The worst part about this is, well, I want him. Still. Cheating and all. How can he hurt so many people? How? Doesn’t she smell the scent of my perfume that tarries? Can’t she see the faint red of very expensive lipstick on his neck? Why are women such fools!? Idle girls, with idle thoughts. My heart is swollen, my mind is desolate. Oh, how can this be? How can humans take the constant beat down of one another? My eyes are afraid of closing. All I see is them touching. Him, happy! This affair, makes him and I both at fault! I didn’t know, till it was too late to stop and think. So many days, months of adultery. I’m afraid of my sin. I should of known better. Stupidity is the mark for an imbecile. I have encased myself in rules and regulations for a reason, and He comes along and breaks them down with petty words of false hope and titillating suggestions that made my face scream the red of a scarlet letter! I feel like hiding, moving. Such a sick deception. I feel weak, bare, helpless. I am merely twenty! My birthday was in July, I am too young to know what I know, and to old to not know better. My years act as strings that everyone gets to pull! I am tearing, ripping, I’ve cried in my sleep. Only to wake, and lament his voice. The worst thing really is this, get this, he took his Mrs. to the Kahlo exhibit! This made my sanity cleave! How dare he! That was ours! Not his and hers! Nope. He was never a lover of Frida! Not till I harped on it for months! He shared a part of my soul with someone else. Careless. I was a child of glass, so many shards represent me now. He is a narcist, a womanizer, I adored his confidence. His coaxing lexicon tongue. How I wish I could catch the words I’ve spoken to him. Grind them up, and shove them down his throat as ‘I hate you.’ Ouch. He has helped reconstruct the pretty prison I’ve encased myself in. I feel wronged, over dramatic, melancholic, disorientated, and hideous. What can I do but embrace the pain, and try to learn? Why can’t I wallow in it more? The pain is mine, he is not. He gave me gifts of used needles, nightmares, and swarthy shadows that will embody no trust. I am havoc, chaos, depressed, and my hair looks like a rats nest. I’ve walked around for two days with my headphones blaring the same song, and I can feel my expression, such a distortion, I’m in fear of never grinning again. People look at me, and I know they can feel my madness radiating off. The girl with spiders, centipedes and mosquitos in her head. I love to easily, does that make me easy? No. Just sad. Love is a big idea, and this world is made up of such little things. This is dismaying. I can't handle my face. That girl. Me. Silly, giddy, I love my shoes, and strangers, Kristina, is not in the mirror. Where did she go? Did I stuff her six feet under too? I need to get a shovel, and find my headstone. My body is craving nostalgia.