Your hatred of me is disappointing. I thought you could be better than this. I thought you could take your balled up broken heart and walk it home. I thought you’d want to be true to your true desires and find the you you really are. The free you. The fire sign I read about in the magazines. Why did I think you’d be that guy? If you were, you wouldn’t be the guy I used to love. Somehow I thought you’d be the man I wanted after I left. How fucked up is that? If you had found that self, the self you needed to love and have loved, then you would finally be able to stop throwing anger at me. But you dont want that do you? You want to control with your rage. And it worked for a moment today. I finally raged back. And I think I heard you smile over the phone, staring at your computer, and thinking that you got this.
Your hatred of me is disappointing. With your emblematic skinny jeans and Abbot Kinney shoes. And your 5 minute wife who makes sure your life looks spotless. She means well. I know. And yet my world is in your hands when my babies are in your house. Don’t you see? To hate me is poison to them. To want me to hate you back is a trickle of hot blood that stains their skin. Asking them to endure hatred boiling from the source of their love is unconscionable. I dont blame you if you want to believe my disappointment is meaningless. And my disappointment in you may make you hate me. Still, I can hear the voices they can only whisper and I know, without a doubt, that they need us to bring love like a fog into their world.