ah, the pain

she did thrive on the moments
of diving in melancholy,
royal depression and ailments
when all to her was folly.
the world would gun her down
her dreams, her life - disaster,
and fate had cast a frown
upon this sorrow master.


Sometimes she couldn’t be sympathetic of other man’s suffering. It’s not like she didn’t care, but the spotlight in her mind was primarily set to fall on her own precious pate, and any outside competition was anything but fairly dealt with. She would always win herself. So what if he said he was low? He was just spoiled. Her pain was real.
She could feel it every night, she would weep a little, careful not to be seen, but then boast about it the first chance she had. The hugs would not stop the cascade of sobs and she would even occasionally wring a little tear in the corner of her eye to express her being deeply hurt. It would make her feel good.
She would then act bravely, proclaim her emotional independence and her stepping into a brave new world of stability and strength and feminism. She wouldn’t go so far as burning her bra or anything, but she would feel even better about herself.
Then, it would dawn on her. This whole self-empowering, self-sufficiency, autonomy thing…was it not getting to the core of her fragile being? Had it not rotted her frail, poor heart to numbness? Something must be wrong, she used to feel. She must have turned to stone. From all that pain she had kept inside. Yes. The pain. She could feel it again. But that was good. That meant she was sane. And normal.
But the pain…ah, it hurt. She would cry on her girlfriend’s shoulder once again about it. It would make her feel better.
What was it that he said? He was low? Ha! He doesn’t know what low IS.