vapor.

When I was staring at the ceiling this morning at 5:03 a.m., I wanted to scream. But I was too tired. And the sleepies in my eyes were heavy, just like my eyelids. So, instead, I screamed last night, as I leaned against my desk. I cried and sobbed and cursed and clenched my fists.  Do you know that I questioned my worth last night? Because of your words? Because of your impersonal words typed up on a piece of letterhead paper, heavy with ink that was more dagger than liquid?

I questioned. my. worth.

Your initial silence was hard enough to bear. Waiting for some acknowledgment that I existed.  And yet, it never came.  I have given myself to you for 14 years. In more ways than one. I have been dedicated and steadfast and honorable. And yet, you treated me like nothing. Like the emptiness of emptiness.

Well I am not empty. I am full of so many good things. Things you will never get to see or feel or hear or learn from. That's right. Learn from. I could have taught you so much. In fact, that day we met, I did teach you something--something you didn't expect to learn. I solved a problem for you. Before we even had a commitment to each other. I solved a problem for you, because I care. Because I am honorable and good and am thinking of someone other than myself.

But you are not.

Your words. On that letterhead. The ink. Heavy like daggers.

Do you know that I burned your words? I skimmed them, they punctured me, and then I burned them. I took the match, struck it against the box, put the fire to your words and watched them burn into nothingness. Because that's what they're worth. Nothing.

But I am worth something.

{If I could escape through that window above, I would.}