What the hell?

What the hell am I doing here?

Who asked the driver to stop?

I don’t want to be here.

Why don’t we go on?

I don’t want to feel the sting of former love that feels betrayed,

like the oozing of a heroine addicts’ wound that never heals.

Sure, I can pretend not to feel it, pretend I don’t see, pretend I feel nothing for him.

Pretend that I did nothing wrong, and that everything will be just fine.

After all, time heals all hearts, right?

He’ll eventually forgive me. Won't he?

How long will it take?

Two years? Maybe three? Will that be long enough? Will the oozing stop?

Or will the bitter burning of the pussing sore never cease?

It seems to have destroyed all chances of a normal relationship.

Normal relationship? Ha, whatever the hell that is.

How can anything be normal? It’s not. It’s all abnormal. He knows it. I know it. Just about everyone seems to know it. It will never work. So why do I keep trying? Keep pretending that it can. Keep pretending that plugging up that gaping hole in my side doesn’t just rip open a new hole.

Argh, that hurts. It’s no wonder I don’t want to give it up. Loneliness feels just as damning as the love does. Even more so. The lonely nights, the lonelier days - I don’t want to be there again.

I don’t want to be here either though.

In all likelihood I’ll just hurt the next guy too.

I hope not. I don’t want to be responsible for any more gaping wounds that never heal.

Why has the vehicle stopped moving?

Maybe I’d best just get out and walk.

But I’d better stop and ask directions, I obviously haven’t the slightest clue as to how to get wherever the hell it is that I’m headed.