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  • I have these images in my head. He is poking at me with his forefinger, shaking with rage, screaming at me only inches from my face, "fuck you, asshole!" Another one... He slams a glass down on the coffee table, it shatters, he storms off, I clean up the mess through my tears. More? He shoves my head into the wall as he walks past and it makes a dull thud, and he says, "hey, fuckface" as though it's a term of endearment. I can't unread the emails I've seen, written by my lover to another woman. I can't undo the abortion he made me have, terrified, this wasn't my choice. I can't make him pay attention to me. I can't ask him not to move away. Most of all I can't do this anymore. Except that I must.

    I'll readily admit that the only true constant to all my failed relationships is me. None of these events were my fault, yet somehow I'm always to blame. I've been called a "man-eater" because of the way I chew through relationships and spit them out. I'm relentless, and I will not stop until I find what I am looking for.

    Instead of growing a thick skin I've become more delicate. Each relationship touches me more deeply than the one before, there's an open wound on my metaphorical heart, and as time has passed I've learned to love through the pain.

    I don't think that I'm easy to love. I carry a lot of baggage, and it's certainly not getting any lighter.
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