There you go, calling me again.
When does it end? I left, I'm gone, but damn, you keep this up.
You want some sort of therapy session, some of my time so you can wash yourself clean. But what do I owe you? You stole my dignity, my security, my ability to trust. You caused me to question my worth, my very existance. You warped my self-image until I was no longer recognizable. When it was all over, you walked away with the best stuff and I left with less than I came with.
And I stayed around for it all.
I played the role.
I made excuses for you.
I fell for your tears.
I listened to your stories.
I believed your lies.
Why should I believe that this time you'll be truthful? Why should I believe that this is the real story? And what makes you think that I even care to hear the real story anymore?
But this isn't for me, is it?
Let me go! You can't just show up every four or five months, send my mind into a tailspin, and walk away feeling better about yourself because you've let me in on another one of your secrets. This need you have, this desire to keep me somehow involved, is masochistic.
It's not about you anymore. This is me, this is my space, my time, and it does not intersect with yours. I'm not doing you any favors. You're feeling guilty, unsettled? Live with it. Hell if I'm going to assist you in your healing process. God knows you did nothing to make it easier on me.
Oh, but this is the real story, right? Not just another slightly varied fairy tale. Well, I don't need your truth. It's too liquid; it fits in whatever shape you need at the moment and can be poured from one vessel to the next, to the next, to the next...
Don't you understand? The book is closed, and to me, you do not exist.