Misery.

I’m a little proud of my vulnerability after working so hard to hang on to it. It takes a lot to let yourself be soft and naked when your natural inclination is to be guarded and hurt. My desire for him overrides my need for sleep at night. We’re past insanity. I’m exhausted, I need him in the worst way and can’t ask.

I’m as afraid to look him directly in the eyes as I am looking at the sun or solar eclipse and I realize the gravity of my mistake as soon as I slip. They’re the same color as my favorite chocolate and I want to close my eyes to the devastating temptation and drown in him at the same time.

I hold my own hands to keep from touching him and every time I slip, it’s the hot sting of an electrical shock that makes things a million times harder. I’ve never been jealous of coffee until I sat across from him while he drank it.

I’m torturing myself, drowning in adjectives and swallowed tears. Trying to breathe instead of cry. As is the womanly thing to do. Wound tight and increasingly upset. Not a good combination. I’m an emotional powderkeg and doing my best to avoid the crackling inferno of him.

I’m running from this problem, which works very well, oddly enough. The elliptical machine has become a permanent fixture in my bedroom and I’m so comfortable running in my bra and panties that I’ve learned to live with the bruises that result from going to war without armour. My shrinking body turns all the wrong heads and it frustrates me to no end, but at least there’s a silver lining to twisting in the wind.

What the hell do I do with this? Sitting around smoldering is driving me half mad and I’m not at all tempted to date myself better. I don’t want attention. I want him.

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