hide the flame

Your words sting harder than your fist ever could. When you write of me as a child, as incapable of constricting my emotions or repressing desire, I long for you to just punch me in the face. It would hurt less than a ruthless deconstruction of my personality flaws. Isn't that sick? Well, it's no sicker than  months of emotional turmoil, of so much guilt for demanding what I need, for being uncompromising, for refusing to be second best. No sicker than staying with a liar. No sicker and no more disgustingly misplaced than hating the madonna for making me the whore.

Well, no more. You called my demands monstrous, you said I burned too brightly. You are a dry husk and I am sorry for your loss, but I will not apologise for setting you on fire.