q - cured of love

I'm cured of love. I'm twenty-three and I'm done with it. I saw you
last night and I made up my mind. I can't love anymore because I can't,
I can't want anybody because I can't. I only want you and you don't
want me so that's it. Down with love. Close the door on your way out. I
will be one of those women who don't need a man, who is admired for her
strength and her freedom. I will be one of those lonely women who cry
in the bath. I won't be invited to dinner parties because I'll make
things 'odd' around the table. I'll be branded a lesbian and abused in
the street by curious neighbourhood children. I am completely cured of
this social illness that debilitates our lives. No wondering if or when
he will ask me to marry him, no wondering where he is and why he hasn't
phoned, no relying on him to carve the Sunday joint or collect the
children from school. There won't be any of that. I feel sick to think
of it. What a performance to be in love, to be unsure, to be a fool,
blinded by feelings that start in the places of our body that are never
discussed. What a lie to ourselves to believe there is only one true
partner for every one true person. I will take no part in this
nonsense. I have become like you. I've thrown a six and moved on to the
first square on the board of your life. You have melted the dice and
grafittied the board. No rules here. No black and white, right or
wrong, just greyness and uncertainty and no one to play with. Just
single players, a relentless, grinding solitaire of a life where there
won't be a prize and you lose as much as you win which is never a great
deal. And that's it. I can't feel love, I've lost it, and you have
stolen my love and my trust and my faith in childhood dreams of Disney
princess happiness. You have killed love. May it rest in peace.