The Ending Without A Beginning

I've always figured there would be a day when you've regret everything we've ever done.
Is today that day?
Say those words.
Or any words.
And I, and all of this, could be gone.
Forever.
And ever.
Amen.

I hope you've gotten whatever it is that you needed from me. Maybe you recognize that you've been where you belong all along? Maybe you've never meant that much to me either. As of late, the only way I ever need you is in the worst way, which I've come to realize is the only way I've ever had you.
Someone or something or somehow, all the butterflies have left my stomach.
Everything is empty.
I'm empty.
And my mind is so clear.
I've never really needed you, but to feel the power of embracing something you shouldn't be allowed to hold. Like trapping the might of the sea, and than trying to store it in a bottle that is already nearly in millions of pieces.
Yet.
You could have said no. Should have infact. Fore what am I to do with you now?
Friends. No. Tried that.
Co-workers. Something that hurts more everyday.
Enemies? Hey? What about it?
Just hate me. Hate me like you said you do. Hate me with your whole being, every proton of every nucleus of every atom that screams at you to do so. Hate me down to your fingertips, the very same fingertips you used to set every inch of my body on fire with.
Hate me. As I have grown to hate you.
I'll never cry, you know.
Its been three days,
I'll never cry.
It'll be three weeks, three years, three milleniums.
But still I'll never cry, dear con artist.
Because you've made me into all the things I'd swore I'd never be. Most importantly, a fling. A short lived romp in the sack, in order to fulfill your physical needs, and give me a false sense of security. Something everyone around us could always feel, but never see, like the most gentle of summer breezes.
Well, I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down.
Because I need to replace all the passion I wasted on you with something,
Hate. You. Me. All.
Love. You? Never.
Maybe it was you all along who recognized just how fragile I truely am. How many hours have you spent, sneaking around, trying to fix things that will always be broken? Wasted. You used to place every hair on my head, perfectly apply all my make up, and you've engineered every muscle in my body, to hold the perfect pose, the perfect smile. To the point where I thought I had finally become perfect for you.
What a beautiful lie.
So here I am, like a porcelin doll, doing everything I can just to break free of your mold, and feel again.
You see, the problem has always been that the only beauty of being perfect on the outside is the idea of the mystery of what is hiding just below the surface.
The only wonderful thing about this Mona Lisa smile that you've plastered on my face, is that I know it will never last forever. It's already, in fact, gone.
What did you think?
I was a nearly perfect crystal bottle for you to pour all your raging waters in. I took on so much for you.
But somewhere there was a flaw.
Well what is it you love so much about crystal anyways? The only way to make a near pefect piece truely perfect after its already been cast is to shatter it to a million pieces and start anew.
Well.
I'm in pieces.
But you're no longer on fire.
So whats left of me? Thousands of dangerously sharp shards of crystal that used to be whole. But you'll never notice because I barely make a sound under your feet, which pass over me daily.
I'll rebuild myself. And when I am done I will no longer be capable of holding the Earth, Moon, Sun and Stars. (Or all the exceptional things I once believed you wanted to give me.)
The beautiful thing about being so broken, is who to say what I will next become?
Never say never.
3 days. Weeks. Years.
nd you should never say never.