Mercy from the Headstrong

The road to Hell is paved with good intentions

Yes, I can’t make it work. Not with you. Maybe, not with anyone else. Maybe, I’m cut out of a different cloth. Maybe, I’m more leather than lace. Yes, I am speaking your language to make it sink. Maybe, I can resist the wear and tear. Maybe, I’m as cold as you have me picked. But, I’m not yours. There are no maybes about that. I never was.

No, I can’t look pretty for your neanderthal buddies to pat your back on your “achievement”. No, I won’t stop taking the 5am one-way flights to unknown islands, on my own. No, you can’t protect me from myself. I would recommend you don’t even try. I need my time, my place. Your lack of comprehension about this spatial truth is not a peril of my making. Deal with it on your own. Yes, I will always love my cameras a little more than you. Maybe, coz they help me capture life in a far more pronounced way than you ever could.

No, I won’t dress garish and loud for your sister’s farce of an engagement ceremony. No, I won’t dance with your drunk as skunk relatives to prove that am deserving of a rank in their midst. No, I won’t send you pictures of my earrings and ask you if you like em so I can decide whether or not to pick em for myself. I picked my own apartment at 16, I don’t need help picking trinkets at 24.

Yes, I will always be a little clinical and detached. That doesn’t make me less humane, just more real. If you guage the difference(which I doubt, you do). Yes, I would recommend you brush up a little bit on your Strenberg to assimiliate that love is infact a combination of intimacy, commitment and passion. No, I don’t set an IQ pre-requiste for guys I date but I prefer if their’s isn’t entirely a single digit one.

Yes, I am more evolved and liberated than you’d like. Yes, that the a priori to my acceptance of the fact that you are still steeped in sexism and partiarchy. Yes, I do marvel at my own lack of cognizance vis-a-vis you, sometimes. Yes, I have learnt a few home truths.

No, I can’t stay with you and make it work because its too difficult to break away and find someone new. No, I don’t fear the single status. No, I don’t have a rewind button. No, I don’t care about your neurosis right now. Mine is pretty declivitous in itself.

No, you don’t get to judge me. You weren’t around when I was getting tumors removed from my arm and writhing in pain when I was put on mind controlling meds. Yes, I am different. Yes, I am better.

No, I am not enthralled by your messianic susurration. No, I don’t find your Robert Jordan’s-I-am-reborn-to-rescue-the-cosmos bullshit inspiring. Not even entertaining. Not when you run with your tail between you legs everytime you are faced with a real problem. Such as, getting dumped. You are as regular as chums. Please stop convincing of your “higher purpose”. Intelligence bereft bimbettes massaging your ego and whatnot is no yardstick of your emotional intelligence.

Yes, I have more brainpower. No, you can’t compete. You are unarmed. As you always were.

Yes, I did stoop far too low to accomodate you. Yes, you should be thankful.

No, I don’t have a “type”. I ‘d like to think people aren’t bacteria to be classified that scientifically.

No, I don’t taper. I walk out when I feel its not right. No, you can’t persuade me to reconsider.

Yes, you were one night stand. Understand, process, accept. Get over it.

No, I don’t love you and am not apologetic. No, I don’t condone your consistent “bitch-assness”. in the words of one Mr Sean P Diddy Combs.

Yes, I was caught up once. Yes, I am acidic and contemptuous when pushed. Yes, I am capable of absolution and peace. No, you can’t decide when I pick and what.

No, I am not a man’s mind in a woman’s body. Yes, you are incredibly incompetent with your (non-existent) sense of humor.

No, the Universe doesn’t consider you its kernel of wisdom. No, you are not saving anyone, not even yourself. No, I am not a conformist, but that doesn’t make me cynical either.

Yes, I can live without you. No, you aren’t a member of the chemical periodic table with the atomic number 8 assigned to you. Much as you’d like to imagine. Full of hot air, yes, you are.

No, you can’t come back. No, I don’t care. Yes, I’d like my space.

This is release. Depart. Now. I want one of me and none of you.

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~ by iconoplastic on August 19, 2008.

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