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Selfish Lover

18 Mar
“It doesn’t always have to be about you.”
It is always about me though. You make it about me. You make it about me making it about myself. But it isn’t about me. It’s about you. You take my silence for anger, instead of hurt. You justify your actions by blaming the situation on me. You shrink me, because you can, and when I refuse to let you, I’m being an overactive heartless bitch.
“You started it. You said something hurtful, so I said something even more hurtful back. I had to one-up you. You act like you’re the only one who got their feelings hurt.”
Take some fucking responsibility. We’re not a couple of kids. If I hurt your feelings, fucking say SOMETHING rather than try to hurt me back. Call me out on my aggressive behavior. HUMANIZE ME. Make me see the wrong and why. Don’t belittle me in your reasoning for the hurt you caused.
“Stop being dumb. You started it. If you didn’t say something mean in the first place I wouldn’t have said anything mean back.”
You’re right, but you’re wrong and you know it. That’s why you keep using me as an agent for justification. You think my silence is guilt; that I am not speaking because I don’t want to admit that you’re right. I don’t want to admit that you’re right. I don’t want to admit that I can be a kid sometimes when I get angry. I don’t want to admit that you make me feel like a mouse compared to a lion when you talk down to me the way you do. I don’t want to admit that if I initiate dialogue about any of this that I will start crying. I don’t want to give you the best of me, even though you think you already have it.
 
“It doesn’t always have to be about you.”
But it does. It needs to be about me because you think it’s acceptable when we fight for you to stand over me while I lay down, so that your dick is in my face and its obvious you dominate. You have to be THE MAN, while I be the little woman, who started everything but can finish nothing. It’s your job to finish. You make that very clear and I feel like the cigarette butt you threw out the window, and your feelings are the sweet smoke you hold in your chest that comes out cleanly, precisely, and truthfully.
It needs to be about me because it is never about me. Because you either legitimize my feelings or you toss them aside. It needs to be about me because I am fucking DONE with my feelings only being the truth if you validate them. What the hell does it matter what you think about how I feel? Who are you to judge the hurt in my heart?
It’s need to be about me because this disrespect for my feelings, no matter how petty you think they are, are more important than your god damn ego.
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Posted by on March 18, 2013 in Her stories

 

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