Addicted to the Pain

XXXI Days of Poetry - Day the Third

Addicted to the Pain

"I've become addicted to the pain of loving you." 

He spoke softly, voice pitched low, and feeble, 
as if unworthy to be uttered. Her silence was 
her reply. There she was, right next to him, 
three feet away. It might as well be an ocean. 
She sat, unmoving, not looking at him, giving 
no indication she'd heard. Which meant she had. 

"Are you going to say something?" 

he said, almost desperately, furious at himself 
for not outlasting her test of will. She shrugged, 
the most fatalistic of gestures she possessed. 

"I told you I was difficult to be with. 
Don't blame me because you can't handle it." 

She got up, walked into the bathroom. Shut the door. 
In moments he could hear water pouring into the large, 
rustic tub. Later she would be cold and distant - more 
distant - and no amount of apologizing would change that. 
Or, she'd be indifferent, as if nothing had happened; it 
was pulling teeth to get her to remember, to acknowledge. 
Which was worse? he mused, knowing the answer immediately. 

The coldness rankled, so unfair, that she got to be the one 
upset, no matter what part she played. But the anger was....
something. You cannot be mad at what you do not care about. 
The nothingness, the utter indifference to his words, feelings, 
his torment....His stomach clenched in pain at the memory of 
what had not even happened yet. That was insanity. What was worse, 
he knew he'd dwell on it, torture himself with imagined scenarios, 
reveling in the hurt. Sick was what that was, no doubt. But when 
you're an addict, and this is all she's selling, you take what you can get.


  

XXXI Days of Poetry (2016)


Read more Poetry, including previous year's "31 Days"





[Painting: partial of: "Abelard and his Pupil Heloise" by Edmund Blair Leighton]