I hate him, but he’s only every part I hate about myself and every part I love about myself.
What is that poem I once found beautiful? How a lover was so enamored that he found his lover’s hand upon his chest was his own… because he loved her without problems or pride?
Oh, we have problems.
You are selfish and unbending and unfeeling. You make me feel unimportant when you ignore my thoughts. You don’t notice me, or help me, or encourage me. Every idea I have that excites me can be find criticism with you. The things you do lack common sense, so that I find myself pretending I’m not with you in public.
I don’t love you. I don’t love you. I don’t love you.
Yet, no matter how much I wander, and try to love others, I know it is useless when I see your face. I will never be able to pass thoughtlessly by you without feeling the way I felt on our wedding night.
Some women would fight to find their soulmates, so why do I reject you? That hand you rest on my chest is my hand, too, but only because I recognize in you those things I abhor in myself.
I’m selfish and unrelenting. I hate those who don’t see things my way, but I change my mind without warning. I can’t control my lack of self control. I am motivated by my desires but hide who I am with lies and exclusions. I find myself arguing with others for the mere sake of disagreeing, because pointing out their inconsistencies makes me feel more secure.
I have no friends, just a lover. And I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you with problems and pride, but I love you because I know no other way than this way, as I try to love my own self.