My heart hurts.
Give me dreams with demons and murders and shadows that give me a fright and gore and fear.
But please make the ones where he doesn’t want me go back again.
A dream where you won’t touch me, not really, shouldn’t matter. The comfort you tried to give later shouldn’t get to me so. Pointing to a lovely house, though abandoned, you gave me a smile. “We’ll live there one day” was a promise, not just one line of words. A promise that we would fix it up and make it a home, our home, and the answer to every dream. “You seem to need the reassurance.”
That would be because you wouldn’t touch me as anything more than a toleration. Because in this dream world of mine, you still didn’t want me. I still wasn’t enough.
And I never, ever could be.
And I hate that I still want to be.
None of it means a damn thing. Give me killers and fear and no more of this emotional bullshit. A week of them is long enough.