Smudges of Waterproof Mascara

It is the memories and images that randomly come to mind that make it so hard to forget. The telephone call where I found myself out of character, vulnerable as I tearfully pleaded for him not to do what he was about to do which, in turn, elicited his own tearful response that he had to go. It was too much for him to bear, this was left unsaid, a given. The desperate and lonely bathing sessions, crying until it felt impossible that another tear could fall before it started up all over again. Trying to gain my composure, defeated by what was out of my hands, mindlessly staring at the sudsy water, which I could see clearly even through the tears, smudges of waterproof mascara, unlike my inability to see this coming. The feelings of being abandoned, the emptiness, the only relationship I could honestly describe as amazing, over without warning. Blind-sided. The songs that incessantly played their melancholy over the airwaves at all the wrong times while explaining exactly how I was feeling, reminders. "It's a quarter after one and I'm all alone and I need you now," lyrics that still bittersweetly sting me. Text messages, misleading but with drops of hope, that he missed me paired with the instantaneous thought that he was laying beside her, skin to skin, as he quickly punched the words into his phone. It didn't prove to be enough to turn photo frames over, they stared back at me when I lay in bed bragging that they encompassed everything that I loved. I packed them away along with everything else that refreshed my memory, as if the fragrance of them could be stifled by the stench of moth balls, forgotten if removed from sight. Aside from my broken-heart, my spirit had taken the brunt of the damage. Perhaps outside of the hurt that still resides in me most of my resentment is internalized for temporarily forgetting that he was human, thinking he would never hurt me like this. Trusting. I knew better. I allowed myself to get hurt. Just once though, I wanted to be the chosen one, the one so deeply loved that hurting me would be unfathomable. Perhaps I romanticize the capabilities of mankind, or rather their incapabilities. It is possible the books that I so often lose myself in have instead caused me to lose myself to the thought that true love exists...not the diluted euphoric love that eventually wears off after the honeymoon, but genuine love. The ultimate fact is that this broken spirit is simply harboring the paralyzing fear that it just wasn't meant for me.