#entitlementissues

Speechlessness and a fumble of ill-mannered drunken words. What whiskey stained answer can I give you without betraying myself when the only words you want to hear come from my mouth is the dialogue that you created for me in your head? What sort of gaunt happiness can be defined within such narrow confines?

I've told you once, and I'll tell you again. I do not want to be romantically involved with you. I want to yell sorry. I want to mean it when I say it.

I cannot.

That misfortune you claim as yours, your anger, your jealousy, your entitlement are not of my dispensation. Is it too much to ask for you not to confuse the pain of my rejection as an endowment of our time together? I sincerely hope that you will remember the happiness you and I felt.

You have already told me that you forgot the smiles. You spoke of them as if they never existed- as you tend to do when something doesn't go your way. You forgot the texts too. You lashed out at me in your anger with a sharp tongue fluent in ultimatums. Nine page texts atrophied to three-worded replies. You sought to alter reality. The words disappeared. Perhaps you swallowed them to fuel the malice in your veins.

When I first met you, you put me up on a high place. Initially I believed we were scaling mountains. The air was fresher up there- less damp with human sweat and tears. As your words and actions drove me skyward I realized that a glistening marble pillar stood erected under me. In horror I jumped off. Do not put me on pedestal and gaze quixotically at me from afar as if I'm a fucking god. Why can't I be human like you?

I will admit behind the cool gaze I'm furious. I'm not as free as you to show my anger. I'm the villain in this story- your story. Not our story. I, too, feel the bitter sting of disappointment. When I locked away my body from you did I have to immolate our friendship too? Is this the end? The big shebang? Please don't snort when I say I feel objectified.

"Perhaps it is for the better". I'll alleviate my qualms with pretty words. You didn't respect me anyway. You treated my words and desires as if they were optional (while you protected yours with the regard fit for a king). You overstepped boundaries and expected compensation. Why could you not accept my answer the first or second time? Why did it have to come down to the game of threes? As if the third time would be the charm. The things you wanted from me were not yours to take. In frustration you used words to give me guilt- the likes of which burned into me. I care for you, so believe me when I declare with my words that I'll give you forgiveness.

I hate that you are in pain. I'm sorry that I couldn't give you the pretty words you so urgently desired.

I cannot love you the way that you admire me. You nor I are the puppet-masters in the game of love. And I will not apologize for something I cannot control.