I am not real.
I am an actor in the reruns you chose to fill the role of your past.
You don't know my real name, my real pain, my real love.
I go unheard as you read the script of your play.
You see the scene in your mind; beginning, conflict. . . complications, unrest. . .
The play never works out quite right.
There is no final act, no resolution.
The actors don't know their lines, their marks, their cues.
My words, my words are tattered by the screaming voices of your past.
My love is fragmented through a tornado.
Our life is only a repeat.
Same channel, same story, same time.
Repeat the shame, worthlessness, guilt, sorrow, abandonment, pain, loss, FEAR.
Emotions we both grudging drag from day to day, place to place.
We hate the baggage.
I beg to be heard by ears filled with old chants of yesterdays.
You can't be loved.
I want to give to you a new life filled with joy, love, reality, passion.
Our passion fuels the flames of shouting and tears.
We press hurtful cries from lips rather than kisses.
The script's lines hang in the air twisting, gnarled.
Start from the top.
You stand in love's doorway and look backwards, behind you, inside you.
You long for love as much as I want to give it to you.
I haven't the ability to stop the play, to quit the role, unless I go.
I will not quit.
You deserve my love.
I shout, beg, cry my love, my compassion, my empathy, my sorrow, my desire for you.
You can't feel me.
I am not heard.
I am nobody.
I am not real to you.