Stop ignoring me.

I said I loved you. Why do you pretend you don’t hear?

That collection of quirks and contradictions that make up you? They are touching. Endearing. Yet you try to erase them, as if they don’t exist.

You step on a rock with your soft bare feet, and curse yourself for it. Why not curse the rock?

I know who you really are. You try to be tough and aloof, but you still hide the tampons in the bottom of the cart, denying your womanhood. I know you suck in your gut when you are around your friend’s husband, and how you stand a little straighter. I see you raise your eyebrows and smile slightly when the villain glares at the screen (you never did fall for the heroes, did you?).

The people that hate you for what you did: you pretend you don’t care. But at night, when you should be asleep, your defense never rests. You plead your case silently, rehearsing your testimony. You think if you could just explain it, they might forgive you and love you again.

Why is my love not real enough to you?