She, We.

She was cruel. She made you feel small. Dumb, naive, hopeless. She called her, she named me a romantic. She said you talk of losers. She made them small. Her hand was to her head. Her little body in that bed. Her eyes always that, yes, that red. As if, as if, yes we were hurting her. Her head. A fantasy world, Chelsea, all of you, your fantasies. She was cruel. She made you feel hopeless. She provided no help. "Get out." "Okay, yes, I will." "Get out." "I know, I am, we are, that tiring." This is a reason man and woman never get involved, never evolve. No one can be human. It would be much too much a surprise; a surprise for the better. But the boyfriend can take her glasses. Throwing them like darts. He can pull the curtains I left her. Pull and have the rod almost go through her head. And she can plead and he won't listen. And she can leave and he'll say she should learn to try. Try to understand what it means. What it means to be normal. Why was she never cruel to her? Never just real with her, as she imagines she is with me. And if reality made her feel small? Then stand on your toes. She made me feel stupid and made the people, the losers of my stories, the friend in my head, the man in my mouth out to be the same. And my feelings, she wanted them insignificant. She didn't want me and him to mean anything. And I don't want to be like her. Dismissive and alone every night.

It's strange. All this distancing we, people, do. The distance doesn't make me feel at all. I don't have the imagination for it. And yet every time I try to get closer to her, at times by trying to talk of him, she says WAKE UP.

GET OUT.
MOVE ON.

And I was
going to
I am
GOING
any
way.

(I
love you,
I don't
want to
blame
you, for this,
you can't
understand if
the boy is
never in you,
can't help this
when it's
never you
in him,
but you
care, you
care right?)