"the world don't owe me flowers"

it's these funny little heartbreaks that set me to weeping in the middle of the workday, head close to the screen, pretending no one notices. i'm nauseous today, and i don't know if it was the yogurt, or the diet coke, or my period, or something else entirely.

we fight, almost, almostsnarling at each other in the candle section of linens'n'things, and i keep my silence, true to my stated goal of not speaking to him, and he questions me, nothing let lie, and it's tears or anger that's going to boil over, and even my anger is earnest and conciliatory, and i try to explain why and he tries to explain why he's said what he's said, and i can almost see the reason in his words, that he always does this, but it hurts more some days than others, and while it's probably me, sometimes i think it's probably also a little bit him.

and i feel irrational and outofsorts, but i don't want any more of his former life coming with him to this house than i have to deal with. he's got ghosts, we've all got ghosts, and i've come to terms with little reminders of what went before, places she went that i never will, and i trade them off for places i'm going and places i'm yet to go. but bedlinens and marriagegifts and kitchenware seems too, too much to ask me to bear. we wouldn't be this sort of in love if we didn't have our histories, he wouldn't be so much of a gift, but i hope someday his past doesn't burn me so much.

i'm too busy coming to terms with my own past, to be ambushed again and again by his seems nearly cruel, and i wonder if he, or anyone else, thinks that i should just be able to get over this, as if it were a bridge to cross, a stream to ford and no looking back. but this path twists and turns, and progress isn't always linear, and if i could, i certainly would.

"the world don't owe me flowers"

it's these funny little heartbreaks that set me to weeping in the middle of the workday, head close to the screen, pretending no one notices. i'm nauseous today, and i don't know if it was the yogurt, or the diet coke, or my period, or something else entirely.

we fight, almost, almostsnarling at each other in the candle section of linens'n'things, and i keep my silence, true to my stated goal of not speaking to him, and he questions me, nothing let lie, and it's tears or anger that's going to boil over, and even my anger is earnest and conciliatory, and i try to explain why and he tries to explain why he's said what he's said, and i can almost see the reason in his words, that he always does this, but it hurts more some days than others, and while it's probably me, sometimes i think it's probably also a little bit him.

and i feel irrational and outofsorts, but i don't want any more of his former life coming with him to this house than i have to deal with. he's got ghosts, we've all got ghosts, and i've come to terms with little reminders of what went before, places she went that i never will, and i trade them off for places i'm going and places i'm yet to go. but bedlinens and marriagegifts and kitchenware seems too, too much to ask me to bear. we wouldn't be this sort of in love if we didn't have our histories, he wouldn't be so much of a gift, but i hope someday his past doesn't burn me so much.

i'm too busy coming to terms with my own past, to be ambushed again and again by his seems nearly cruel, and i wonder if he, or anyone else, thinks that i should just be able to get over this, as if it were a bridge to cross, a stream to ford and no looking back. but this path twists and turns, and progress isn't always linear, and if i could, i certainly would.