"I didn't know." You said to me, throwing your blue eyes at me like a goddamn spear. I almost flinch.


You never know. That voice inside my head snarls again. That's always your excuse.

"Huh." Is all I say, returning your blue-eyed spear with my own dark shafts. I can see your spearhead shatter as I flit my gaze to a more comfortable subject. I'm sick of your excuses and your vulnerability. Your ignorance and your soft voice. Your long fingers and those damned blue eyes.

Damn you. Damn it all.

"Come, on, babe, please." You plead, shooting your blue-eyed spears at me again. I shall not flinch. "I really didn't know."

I didn't know

I didn't know

I. Didn't. Know.

You never freaking know. And I always make excuses for you. That you're busy. That you're away. That you have stuff going on. And it hurts a lot, a whole freaking lot, knowing that I try so hard to make this work between us, and you never seem to do anything. You can leave me hanging for hours, days, weeks, and I will take it like your damn lapdog, waiting for when you show the slightest bit of affection. God, you don't know how much it hurts.

And then I say something about it, never direct, always around and about, trying to prevent those blue eyes from shattering, and I get this.

I didn't know.

I get your pleas of ignorance and pity, I get your soft voice and long fingers in my hair or on my cheek, and I get your sad blue eyes. I know what I'm supposed to do, and I do it. I open up my arms and let you fall into them, and I let myself fall into yours while we "comfort" each other, which is basically just me apologizing for my speaking out and you nodding and taking it. I let you back in so you can trample over my heart again.

I am so damn sick of it.

So, I sit here across from you, shooting my dark-eyed shafts at you. I want you to flinch. I want you do hurt like I do, I want you to at least look like you feel something like I do when you trample on me.

But you simply return my dark stare, my entire internal struggle completely lost on you. You who claim to be "so good at reading people", "understanding of others' feelings", and "getting where those in love come from" cannot seem to understand, nor get, nor read the feelings of someone you supposedly love, someone who is sitting right across from you.

You actually don't know.

This irony is not lost on me.

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