Proud of my broken heart, He breaks my heart. No one else in my life has ever touched that proud
organ: neather parent, 'friend', or lover. Only him.
And it IS prideful. I have always been proud that I had no attachments, that
I needed no one. I was solitary, and complete. Or so I thought. That concept
changed when I met him, when I got to know him. When I came to want him,
desire him, and then...
Love him?
Yes, love. I'll admit it. Isn't it funny? Sociopaths aren't supposed to be
able to love, but this can't be anything else. It astonishes me in its depth
and fervor. I had thought that nothing could inspire such feelings except my
own self-nterests.
We're not supposed to feel hurt, either, except in a purely physical or
totally abstract way. But I'm not like the others of my cold brotherhood,
not any more. I have felt the deep, searing torture of knowing that he hated
me, that he would kill me if he only had the chance. I've felt the gentler,
but still bitter ache of having him turn away from me, push me aside. His
tone of voice can lash me, a single glance from those hazel eyes will score
my soul. I keep coming back for more. Who'd have ever believed it? Me, an
emotional maschochist.
I've been called a creature of the night, and that by those who had cause to
appreciate my dark nature and talents. I own that nature now because, for
some reason I can't fathom, this bright creature I love seems drawn to it.
He moves through my life, giving the only light and beauty I am to be able
to see these days. Since it seems I cannot walk in the sun, he is my moon.
But he isn't wholly mine yet. The struggle continues, and I'm drawing him
closer, day by day. Every time we meet, I chip away a little more of the
mortar of doubt and repression that holds together the walls of his
defenses. They will crumble soon.
Till then, I can have only what passion I can force from him. He doesn't
share it willingly, and that hurts, perhaps, the most of all. But it WILL
happen.
Perhaps I should be humbled in the face of his continuing rejection, but
somehow, I can't be. After all, Fox Mulder cares enough to break my heart.
Proud, Broken Heart
by Scribe
Proud of my Broken Heart
by Emily Dickinson
since thou didst break it.
Proud of the pain, I did not feel 'till thee.
Proud of my night, since thou, with moons, dos't shake it.
Not to partake thy passion,—my humility
