Marriage story

Your hands, how alien they feel on me. Unwanted, undesirable, impure. Your touch repels me.

Every time I see you, hear you speak, the mundane drivel, tasteless, meaningless. It’s a pattern of life you call organized, a structure, a way of living.

I do not like the way you walk, the ugly sounds your footsteps make, learning to recognize them for the years we’ve been here. I pray they do not find me.

Do not enter the room I am in. Do not talk to me, do not make a stab at a conversation, to know of my day, your desire for closeness- only to justify my presence in your life; To fill the air with morose, empty words. The obligations of company.

I am constricted, and you violate me. Your presence, your very existence, even reminders of your existence, lurking in shadows everywhere I go, the corners of a prison I have helped confine myself in. In pictures, paintings, and songs. It’s sickening. The cold, unfeeling air makes me nauseous.

I search for a reprieve. I am unable to recall why I wanted to be a part of this. It’s strange to think about the decisions I’ve made under the guise of an eternity, some misplaced optimism- A choice to regret for what seems to be an eternity.

It’s a pattern of life you call organized, a structure, a way of living.

I long for a way to rewind my days, my time, to not make a decision to walk the tomb my life haunts.

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If a man could be two places at one time, I’d be with you
Tomorrow and today, beside you all the way
If the world should stop revolving spinning slowly down to die
I’d spend the end with you and when the world was through