Confessions of the impertinent predilections of a sinner...

She sat on her bed, hugging her knees as she rested her head on the knee-caps. Under the dim orange hue of the night lamp, her shadows outlined a mere grey sketch on the wall. Her shoulder length hair fell beside her face hiding a portion of her side profile as she sighed with a blatant tone of despair. The disconcerted silence kept her train of thoughts running...spinning....Tirelessly. The replusive images of atrocities flickered one after another, not any different compared to an incessant haunting. Repugnance, was all she felt.

The roller-coaster ride she mentioned earlier on seemed as if it had only barely begun. Can she withold, any longer?

He promsied her not many things. But they were sacrifices that she'd treasure so much, that meant alot to her. Promises that would show how much she meant, how much he would do for his love for her. Not that much, she guessed. The point when he pleaded that he would prove to her and not delete the evidences and history log in his computer. She was delirious. Ecstatically jubilant. Pleasantly apalled. Extremely pleasantly, indeed. Thus, the silly little girl trusted, with all her heart. Or rather, all that's left of her.

He promised not to fulminase at her. She felt so extremely loved, as if she was the light of his life. Perhaps she was afterall, she thought. 'Its alright,baby. Don't be sorry.' Was her reply to him when she was still nursing the hurt, yet again. But, he blew the fuse the very next day. She forgave him, anyway, returning home a tattered, bitter soul. And her face showed nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The promises that meant so much to her... She thought she was never wrong when she told him in the eyes: 'I have and will never regret being with you baby. You're wonderful...you really are.' She thought... she was never wrong. She doesn't know how to feel anymore. Maybe he forgot. Maybe he didn't mean it. Perhaps I was so fucking silly as to take his words so seriously. How should she feel? She don't know.

Perhaps he would only understand when she becomes a replica of him, living in his shadows.
Maybe only when addiction sets in and she starts watching those familiar figures almost every other night when she's not with him, or when her comp gets so used to downloading them in the particular folder, start smoking her life away, gets provoked at the slightest work of Murphy's Law...

Perhaps only then he would feel how she felt.
Or maybe, he would never feel it, even if she sacrificed that much - deteriorate to become exactly of what he is.

Desolately pulverized, might be the term that's left for me.
So much for trusting with all my heart and soul. Can anyone tell me its worth it? Can you, baby?


Baby, can you teach me how to feel? I'm sorry, I think i've lost that sense already.