This empty life…

He called me “hon”.

He is not prone to terms of endearment. This isn’t a man who slips into language like a diner’s waitress.

After no communication for days. Maybe a week.

I’ve lost track of time.

These days time is like taffy. Stretching, clinging, sticking.

The point is it just slipped out so casually.

And I want to bash my head into a wall repeatedly.

There’s a reason I grew up loving paperback mysteries, Stephen King, and Wes Craven movies. This isn’t a girl who believes in fairy-tale-happy-ending bullshit.

I am my father’s daughter.

And I know better.

I know that there isn’t some white knight who is gonna swoop in at the last minute and make all the hurt disappear. There isn’t even a constant weight on the other side of my bed, much less in less explicit facets of my life.

I am on my own. Always. Regardless of where I’m stuck in time.

Only a single friend has told me “You deserve to have him stay. You give so much.”

All others are silent. And it shows me what I already know, in that deepest heart of mine. That truest heart. That constant companion that’s been there since when I was little.

There’s no point in giving. There is no deserving.

There is only the taffy stretch of time and the constant stickiness of pain.

“Cigarettes” by The Wreckers

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