Pain Is Just a Simple Compromise
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It’s strange, the extent to which a mind can ignore something.
All around me I see people in their own worlds, safe and secure. Schoolchildren oblivious to the lesson in their classroom, reading more desirable books under their desks. Drivers in their cars at stoplights, singing to their radios like no one can see them. Teenagers tuning out their mothers, who shout at them about college or housework.
I am not one of these people. I am all too aware.
I am all too aware the nights you don’t come home on time, claiming you needed to work late. I see you when you check your phone, waiting for a message even though I am sitting right next you. I know what you’re doing when you’re staying out all night, coming home with your hair disheveled and your tie in your pocket. I know you have someone else.
I remember when I first realized it, how hurt I was. I even tried to confront you about it. But you denied it, shaking your head and telling me, why would you ever need anyone else when you have me?
I don’t know, Zack. You tell me.
Don’t worry, Jack, you said, taking my hand softly in yours. You’re the only person I’ll ever want in my life.
I looked into your warm hazel eyes, which were gazing at me tenderly. I agreed softly, I couldn’t help myself, and you leaned in closer and the rest went blurry.
I just can’t stand up to you. I can’t confront you with everything I know is going on, supposedly behind my back. I love you too deeply; the thought of potentially losing you causes a pain in my chest like I’ve never experienced. It’s like there are volumes of encyclopedias stacked on my lungs.
The pain of living with you is bad; the hurt of living without you would be worse.
I’ve been playing the part of the fool for almost a year. You still believe that I know nothing. But every time you come home, the smell of someone else’s cologne on your clothing, a piece of my heart is crushed to dust.
Why aren’t I enough for you?
This question keeps me awake at night. I try to be better; I try to be more loving and considerate, more attentive and more romantic. But none of it seems to work, you never have an answer for me. I wish you did.
It’s hard to believe you have this “habit” when I see you at your most vulnerable. I know where to touch to make you shiver; I know exactly how you love to be kissed, how to lace my fingers perfectly through your hair. I know the moan that means I’m doing everything right, soft and low as my touch travels over your skin.
I love when you fall asleep after, your eyes gently closed as your bare shoulders rise and fall. I love when you rest your arm over my stomach, tracing invisible patterns and lines over my pale skin as you drift off. I love when you smile unknowingly, happiness reaching you even in your deepest dreams.
But I hate that you’re not mine. Not truly.
Sometimes, while you are curled up next to me, I know you wish you didn’t have your “habit”. Sometimes, when you do stay home for the night, I hear you in the silence. I hear your breath coming fast and feel your body jerk slightly next to me, trying your best to suppress the salty tears. My heart twists because I know I can’t comfort you, because I’m not supposed to know. I could never describe to anyone how much it hurts to see you hurt.
And yet, I stay. I stay simply because I love you. I stay because sometimes, when we are intertwined, you bury your face in my chest and whisper, too quiet for me to hear what you’re saying. I know what you’re saying, though. I can see it in the way you look at me, the way you hold me so tightly, so close to you. You tell me you’re sorry, every night.
And I’m sorry, too.
All around me I see people in their own worlds, safe and secure. Schoolchildren oblivious to the lesson in their classroom, reading more desirable books under their desks. Drivers in their cars at stoplights, singing to their radios like no one can see them. Teenagers tuning out their mothers, who shout at them about college or housework.
I am not one of these people. I am all too aware.
I am all too aware the nights you don’t come home on time, claiming you needed to work late. I see you when you check your phone, waiting for a message even though I am sitting right next you. I know what you’re doing when you’re staying out all night, coming home with your hair disheveled and your tie in your pocket. I know you have someone else.
I remember when I first realized it, how hurt I was. I even tried to confront you about it. But you denied it, shaking your head and telling me, why would you ever need anyone else when you have me?
I don’t know, Zack. You tell me.
Don’t worry, Jack, you said, taking my hand softly in yours. You’re the only person I’ll ever want in my life.
I looked into your warm hazel eyes, which were gazing at me tenderly. I agreed softly, I couldn’t help myself, and you leaned in closer and the rest went blurry.
I just can’t stand up to you. I can’t confront you with everything I know is going on, supposedly behind my back. I love you too deeply; the thought of potentially losing you causes a pain in my chest like I’ve never experienced. It’s like there are volumes of encyclopedias stacked on my lungs.
The pain of living with you is bad; the hurt of living without you would be worse.
I’ve been playing the part of the fool for almost a year. You still believe that I know nothing. But every time you come home, the smell of someone else’s cologne on your clothing, a piece of my heart is crushed to dust.
Why aren’t I enough for you?
This question keeps me awake at night. I try to be better; I try to be more loving and considerate, more attentive and more romantic. But none of it seems to work, you never have an answer for me. I wish you did.
It’s hard to believe you have this “habit” when I see you at your most vulnerable. I know where to touch to make you shiver; I know exactly how you love to be kissed, how to lace my fingers perfectly through your hair. I know the moan that means I’m doing everything right, soft and low as my touch travels over your skin.
I love when you fall asleep after, your eyes gently closed as your bare shoulders rise and fall. I love when you rest your arm over my stomach, tracing invisible patterns and lines over my pale skin as you drift off. I love when you smile unknowingly, happiness reaching you even in your deepest dreams.
But I hate that you’re not mine. Not truly.
Sometimes, while you are curled up next to me, I know you wish you didn’t have your “habit”. Sometimes, when you do stay home for the night, I hear you in the silence. I hear your breath coming fast and feel your body jerk slightly next to me, trying your best to suppress the salty tears. My heart twists because I know I can’t comfort you, because I’m not supposed to know. I could never describe to anyone how much it hurts to see you hurt.
And yet, I stay. I stay simply because I love you. I stay because sometimes, when we are intertwined, you bury your face in my chest and whisper, too quiet for me to hear what you’re saying. I know what you’re saying, though. I can see it in the way you look at me, the way you hold me so tightly, so close to you. You tell me you’re sorry, every night.
And I’m sorry, too.