I gave a name to my pain. She was fat and ugly… and loved. While I was skinny, conventionally pretty and unloved. Despite my appearance, my efforts, my irreproachable behavior, my personality… I didn’t have what it took. I didn’t deserve the love she had known – the love that was so strong that even the memory of it eclipsed any affection held for me. I fought tooth and nail, gave all of me and more – but still did not get an ounce of what she had.
I was told that I had the love, but I didn’t feel it and I didn’t see it. I saw it in his portraits of her that transformed her into ravishing goddesses – so unlike her in reality – but that’s what he saw. In her, he saw beauty where no one else did and I wished he saw the same in me, but in me he only saw the beauty that everyone else saw, nothing deeper. He worshiped the past that he’d shared with her, the picture frames and souvenirs were a shrine to her. Yet he wouldn’t go back and stayed with me all the while gazing back at her rapturously.
Then I gave up.
Now I am given all that she had – every little bit of it and even more. He no longer longs for his life with her, but yearns for me and the imaginary life we never had. But it’s too late – I can’t appreciate it, savor it – it has no taste. It is an inglorious victory.
I have a new name for my pain. She stares back at me from the mirror. She wished for something and got it, but only when she didn’t want it anymore.