By: N. Rizzo
He just doesn’t get it.
He doesn’t get me.
He doesn’t have to.
He could at least try to.
The ugly, the pretty, the sarcasm, the humor, the enthusiasm, and all that in between.
Is this too much to ask for?
People say if it’s too much to ask, you’re probably asking the wrong person.
Maybe that’s true, maybe it’s not.
Who’s to say?
Who has the answers? Not me. Not you.
Maybe our Gods do, if they’re listening.
He means well.
He’s sweet, caring, and affectionate to me.
Why isn’t that enough?
Why doesn’t it feel real?
Maybe because it’s not.
Is he faking it?
I don’t think so, I think he believes he loves me.
Does he know what love is?
Do I know what love is?
Does anyone know what love is?
I look around the room, my face shifts towards the black stray marks on the white wall. Damaged huh.
Does anyone think about it’s damage?
All that it sees.
It watches and hears all of us.
It sees all the parts that underline us.
But do we see it?
We ignore it and the pain we inflict on it.
Because its always there, overlooked.
It’s common, predictable, plain.
How can we do that?
It has feelings too.
