I get the rules. What I don’t get is the intent.
Why encourage me to weave myself into your life?
Why spend a year feeding me a fantasy,knowing all along you’d eventually walk away?
Perhaps I’m the naive one.
In fact, I must be.
I sat there, convinced I was your “Mrs. Jones” , humming along to a song whose lyrics I didn’t actually understand until now.
Imagine this:
You confess. He goes silent.
Not a single word.
You’ve created an awkward situation.
He’s in an awkward position.
You? You’re just dying.
Message read. No reply.
Do you double-text to “explain”?
Do you pivot and claim it was just an April Fool’s joke?
Or do you just accept your fate and vanish from the face of the earth?
One, two, three,
The plates crashed hard against the wall.
She stood in the center, eyes closed tight.
Four, five, six,
Glass shattered in a ring around her.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Seven, eight, nine,
The porcelain storm kept coming.
Ten.
The final shard finds its mark.
It bites into her skin, a sharp, red sting—
There is blood, but oddly, she doesn’t feel it.
The numbness is a shield.
Inside, she is a landslide of shaking nerves,
But she stands like a statue in the debris.
She cannot break, because she is the floor
On which the children stand.
Millypede 