It is fact yet i treat it like a riddle, I can't stop turning it over in my mind: No matter what I feel I can't change what someone else doesn't.
I can fashion myself into something I imagine attractive. I can say what I think the other wants to hear. I can reassure, flatter, validate. I can stroke the ego as only a wounded, insecure animal knows how. I can offer my body, I can oil up my hemorrhoidal anus, I can make myself available. I can drop what I am doing for a chat, I can apologize when I don't feel in the wrong. I can hurt myself and it will not change what someone else does't feel.
I can scream and accuse and let the resentment come out in hot, angry tears and long, carefully wrought letters. I can break down into threats, offer up ultimatums, suggest compromises. I can withdraw, and I can come back, shaking, nervous, pleading and let the abuse flow over me like a stream and cleanse me of my presumptiousness.
But I can't change someone else's definition of me. I can't change that I matter little, that I am a distraction among many. I have a use, true, but my offerings are limited. I am neither special nor irreplaceable. I can't create content where none is perceived, I can't expand my role beyond supporting.
After a fleeting thought of a tight asshole and some banter to fill the time I simply don't exist. I am locked in, typecast into exotic sex and filler. No amount of expressed hurt cam make me more loved. No amount of held back sorrow, of held back sex and conversation and flattery will create an desirable enough air of indifference.
It makes no difference how ill used I feel. My feelings matter only to me. My guarded empty life has no allure. My secret, passionate, introspective life doesn't either. No matter what I think of myself I am utterly worthless, easily left behind if I get too demanding. This Is the reality I can't change, and this is what I can't stop turning over and over in my head as if if I stare at it long enough it will morph into an opportunity.