ASSIGNMENTS:
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Don
Paris, FRANCE
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REPORTS:
PREVIOUS NEXT
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Me: Why the hell is it every time I called you there I felt like I was hassling you and I felt like if I finished the sentence I would die so I piled on clause after clause until I sounded like a ditz and then I would scorn myself internally because I hadn't shown myself as I really am and then I would scorn you for being how you are and how your being how you are makes me a certain way that makes me want to scream.
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Me: Why am I submissive around you and why do I feel inadequate and why couldn't I scream out when I thought you were being negligent and insensitive? No, I pottered around, clinging wordlessly to your chest, repressing disappointments and despair-gasps. A whole fucking week of that. A whole fucking week of adoring you and wanting you to crush me with your personality and intellect and grace. I think I wanted to be you.
Transatlantic Lover: So you looked at my emails and photos.
Me: I am remorseful and I await your forgiveness.
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Me: I am remorseful, mike.
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Me: I await your forgiveness which I hope will come one day...
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Me:... and until that day I think I have put a part of me to sleep. Or locked it up in the attic, with rags stuffed in its mouth and its small wrists and ankles bound. It submitted willfully and was incredible easy to stow. I sometimes wake up and worry that it would die up there. I would never hear. It may be dead.
Transatlantic Lover: why are you telling me this?
Me: Because I have the opportunity to have the phone conversation I wish I could have. I wanted to tell you how hard it was to realise that you didn't want me after all. After all those miles of ocean and all those emails, every day, and how I was sure I had felt something, a reverberation Ð but it had petered out I think. And sometimes I think that maybe you just have quiet, understated ways and I am too demanding and needy and that, of course, fits a fantasy as it would mean that you may still love me and that you are silent and mysterious as is how I like them. I'm sorry I'm talking so much.
Transatlantic Lover: It's ok.
Me: I don't expect answers or explanations. I understand this is a conversation with myself.
Transatlantic Lover: I'm angry.
Me: I know.
Transatlantic Lover: You violated my privacy. You read my emails.
Me: You should have spoken to me more. You should have held me more.
Transatlantic Lover: What the fuck has my negligence of you to do with your total disrespect of my privacy?
Me: Nothing, now.
Transatlantic Lover: So shut up. Why is it you think you are the only one that got hurt here? You disappointed me so much and you tore something down that I loved and trampled it and I'm not sure I can make out what it was anymore.
Me: Don't throw it away. Please don't. It may come to resemble what it was with time. Or if you look at it hard enough you may fond beauty in its soiled creases again.
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Me: are you there?
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Me: please?
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Me: Look, I have to go. I hear something upstairs, I think. Call me again, please?
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Me: I miss you.
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