age

I wanted to pour my soul into his bones. Make him know, we are not made of the same stardust. We will reject each other, and perhaps a lifetime of pills will somehow create a beautiful, functioning body for the two of us. I wanted him to know that I did not hate him, but I was angry because I was not naïve. I did not pretend I knew every inch of his soul inside and out, I did not speculate whether or not he had listened, whether he was mature enough to understand, whether he had experienced just as much as he had. But he did. I wanted to make him know that I had listened, and yet some how creating this ugly, completely unlovable persona of myself was far more rewarding. Instead of having his arms curled around me I was comfortable in his infuriation of me, in the new confusion, the questioning of if she really is different, can I not control her anymore. I wanted to tell him that in assuming so much and having the audacity to tell me that knowing comes with age he was the immature one, he was the unexperienced one, he was the one who should be scolding himself for having life delivered to him on a silver platter and I could remain unapologetic for what he named the things he hates about me. That is, that I hand him everything and all of a sudden pull away and decide no. I am not your play toy today. I am my own person. You cannot drag me out of the closet stuffed with other dolls when you are bored, you are not the one who decides when we talk and when I speak and when I am right. I wanted to tell him age is but a number, experience must be reacted to in order to learn and I am my own person now and I gain far much more pleasure from his torture than from anything I had ever felt because finally I was in control. Finally, I was beginning to learn what peace looked like with him still rattling around my synapses. I wanted to tell him, I hate you.

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