Make You Feel My Love

You said you weren’t “feeling it” anymore. Whatever the hell that means. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I don’t get what you don’t understand. What isn’t there to feel?

I mean, I’ve given you everything. My time, my money, my body, my heart. I gave you my goddamn heart. It’s right there in your stupid hands and you can’t feel it?

What the fuck is wrong with you?

What changed? What happened? Did I do something wrong? If so, why won’t you let me fix it and make this right?

Then you just dismiss me. You break my heart and you have the audacity to dismiss me? Woman, you have lost your goddamn mind. I don’t know if its hormones or your period or what the fuck ever, but I’m going to tell you something. You don’t get to dismiss me. Like I was nothing. Like what we had didn’t mean anything.

It meant everything to me. So it damn sure should mean something to you. You don’t just get to go from being happy and in love to indifference and “not feeling it” on a whim. I mean, you act like you never cared.

And I can’t accept that. I just can’t. So here I am at your front door and I realize I’ve never been here before. I’ve never been welcomed completely into your inner sanctum.

It’s late. Or early depending on how you look at it. I use the light of the moon to pick your locks. It would be rude to ring your doorbell at this hour. I’m good at this so it doesn’t take me long get step inside your home.

Ah, so this is why you didn’t want me to see your place. You’re messy. The foyer is littered with discarded shoes, back packs and toys.

Why do you have toys in your foyer?

I climb the stairs, passing an Elmo who is just begging to be tickled, nearly twisting my ankle on a matchbox car. I fall forward, landing heavily on a plush Winnie the Pooh bear who loudly giggles and asks for “more honey”.

There are pictures at the top of the landing. Pictures of you. And some man. And some cross-eyed kid who never seems to smile. The kid is probably so unhappy because it looks like its mendacious mother chose to feel some other idiot’s love.

An expensive pink golf bag leans against a corner. A token of my love for her proudly displayed in a house she obviously shares with another man. I don’t even realize I grab a 9-iron, but I’m very aware of walking into your room.

You’re naked. Beautiful. And Naked. With him. Wrapped up in silk sheets and him.

I can feel my love for you burning my veins. It hurts. Shaking with that love, I lift the golf club and swing downward. I swing and I swing. And with each swing I hope you feel it.

I hope you feel my love.