No one knows the pain. The people who do--they defy the statistics. They don't marry or they don't marry again.
They wander through life, closed off, cheated out of love, cheating others out of affection and closeness. Gifting cruelty.
I sense I'm about to enter a league of permanently fucked up people.
Maybe that was his present to me, a lesson of sorts, and now, I carry it on my back, this boulder of a burden.
Do you still love me?
No one gets it because I don't. Mourning isn't a practiced art usually. YOu don't walk into a room, wave your arms, and say, "Oh, pick me! Pick me!"
You, in the back, you're next.
No one knows when it's going to get better, when the pain will go away, and neither do I. We've never done this before.
It's the absolute alone-ness in the pain that drives in the insanity. No one can dig you out. Friends peer at you as you struggle down at the bottom. Some make comparisons to break up's that they've had, but no one has had voices of their ex-boyfriends, now have they?
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