It swells inside and I feel mad as a rabid animal, hurt like a sensitive child. You are a person, a subject, not an object, yet you become one to a part of me that has gone a step further, evidently, into feeling that you are an object of ownership — a possession.
My emotions reduce you to a tree I have pissed upon. My intellect judges those emotions to be childish and primitive.
I wanted you and have done nothing and here you fucked your ex-boyfriend, evidently got back together with him as well. I have no right to feel this way and yet I do and, it would seem, can do nothing about it. All I can do is manage my irrational jealousy and hurt and anger, and I think I’m doing rather well.
Go ahead, laugh it up. I can feel your glee inside. Beautiful, sadistic. I’m not satisfying you by reacting, but you sense it in me at a level nonetheless.
Now I need to ensure you cast doubt on yourself.
I’m killing you with still water, a blank slate, an unaffected face so you can let your projections go wild. You think you’re seeing me, though its only your own reflection. I feel confident you’ll see what you deserve to see.
Through you I’ll finally see what, if anything, you wanted of me. You’ll stand naked in all your glory. Then I’ll know where to go.