In The Eyes Of A Cobra

So cold.

He looked at me so cold when I ran into him in the hallway.  His eyes had as much emotion as a lizard.  Green and glassy.  His face was ugly and set hard.  Lips like a snake’s, hiding his own poisons.  Body stiff as a cold blooded reptile too long without sun.

I do not think this was my own projection, but an insight, a reading of his body language, a reality.

He is in full addict mode and I just don’t get it.  I don’t get addict and that much self hate.  I lived it, I didn’t love it, and I did what I could to change it.  Maybe not always ecstatic, or joyful, but not filled with pain and self loathing and shame.  My inner voice didn’t own me with derision anymore as I had embraced most of my quirkiness, my flightiness, my messiness, my sadness, my weird dark thoughts, my broken places.  There was always more to learn, more to deal with, but I am OK with that.

Until this.  Until lately, when I find I am trapped and don’t care anymore.  I don’t like this growing disregard in me, this coldness, this defense against the hate I feel in his presence.

I am doing things of which I don’t approve.  Things which would hurt others, would hurt me, if I were them.

It is making me evaluate my actions.  My values do not include hurting another woman, yet I am on a site about affairs.  I guess I have been so compromised that I have become him, willing to hurt myself in order to get mine and maybe hurt him and I just don’t care.

Only I do care.

I want sex. 

But I want clean, sacred, healing sex. 

Not what he wants, not lies and deceit and cruelty.  There are men in there who claim how much they respect women, yet they are cheating!  What a joke.  What a sick, painful, cruel joke.

I have passing thoughts of finding who they are and getting real names out of them then emailing their ‘attached’ half and letting them in on the truth.  That would only satisfy my pain at wishing I could get back at him.  Futile, futile.

He doesn’t even care.  He has completely shut down so that he can endure the agony and the ecstasy of his guilty pleasures, his sick secrets, his beloved shame.  He is so trained to hate himself that it feels right, maybe not good, but right and proper and normal.

I don’t know what ‘normal’ is, not even average.  But I would rather feel positive than hate myself to death.

I wish he would just get on with it and die already.

I wish I could find a positive light to guide me.

I wish I could have a real miracle.

I wish for world peace.



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