November 9, 2007
Today he loves me.
Today he hates me.
Love measured out by a score board.
Such fickle love.
I must not fumble,
though the ball is never in my court.
Never the home team,
always the outsider,
a player with only fair-weather fans.
Every day playing this game,
A cruel game with little chance of winning.
But I continue chasing that far off trophy of approval and affection.
I must keep fighting.
I must be like him.
I must act like her.
I must have their illusion of love
There is nothing else for me.
I am nothing.
Aren’t I?

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