You hurt me. Not physically, but emotionally. As hard as I try not to let it get to me, it still does.
I fell in love with you and you turned around saying that you weren’t sure about us. You didn’t know about how I felt about you. I guess telling you that I loved you and the rest meant nothing. You said that because some book told you that because my lips were not Angela Jolie full, that I wasn’t generous. I am 42 and yet lack wrinkles and worry lines on my forehead, which meant to you, and the book, that I didn’t think deep thoughts or worry about stuff. Have you EVER heard of Olay? Or good genetics? Then after a year you contact me on Facebook to ask how I am doing. I invite you for dinner and you say you don’t want anything to do with me. Then why contact me in the first place?
I thought the feelings I had for you were gone, squished into a small black tar ball, . But like the desert rain, one word from you and the tar ball blooms outward, threatening to take over my heart. You are not allowed.