Ruth is a full-time writer. Foodie. Happy camper. Wanders a lot. Used to have the worst taste in men. A reformed swipe-a-holic. Reviving her blog after its death.
Monday, May 12, 2003
Jealousy as defined by me.
It’s the urge of smashing the face of the man you love so that nobody else will find him attractive.
It’s the unreasonable longing to say bad things against him so that no will think he’s nice, funny, or sweet.
It’s the yearning to pull the hair of the other woman, kick her hard on the stomach, drive a knife through her chest, slice her nicely, take all the bones especially the ulna (one of the hardest bone in the body) and the pelvis, burn the bones, before putting her body parts on a meat grinder. Never mind she knows nothing about you. Never mind she’s innocent. Never mind that she’s also victim of your selfishness. [Don’t worry CSI fans; I’ll make sure I’ll wear gloves and hair net, and I won’t sweat, so I won’t leave any DNA trace.]
It’s strength from your arms down to your legs deserting you.
It’s your brain turning into mush, doing everything from swimming to floating to diving inside your skull. Everything but think straight.
It’s the desire to scream at the top of your lungs. Scream as if the pain you’ve been feeling would disappear with your voice. Scream like he would hear you from where you are.
It’s crying your eyes out before you sleep.
It’s praying so hard, every night, that God save you from this hell on earth.
It’s waking up in the morning hoping that today would be the day when you won’t think about him and his love. Either that, or wishing you had a baseball bat so you can bash the head of the first person who teased you about your puffy eyes.
It’s knowing that you have relinquished your claim a long time ago. Yet now, you want to reclaim it, because you realize that life was so much better when he was on your side. But it’s way too late to have him back.
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