Thistle ~ possession is the opposite of love

Tell me, why is it, that all freedom must be traded for love? The wolf must have a collar around its neck.

So that she doesn’t exist. Except to be his pet.

She speaks to no one. Sees no one. Goes nowhere.

She is alone. Isolated by his life. Even from herself

Compromise comes on her part heavily. His food. His music. His entertainment. The rooms are his rooms. If she leaves she will be homeless. This is his home and not her own, she is a stranger. When she wants to escape to the only one room that is not suffocated by him, he says he will take it and she has to stay in his.

He doesn’t seek out her depths. He doesn’t even ask her about who she is and what is important to her.

She has an obvious shrine in full view and he knows nothing, cares nothing.

They don’t share anything together. He will not answer anything deeper, will not open his mind to her. He got there through lies and told her he would lie to her still. He told her from the start she would not have his trust, and yet expects her to place her faith in him.

He says he loves her, but he only loves what he can look upon and touch. He does not care about anything inside. He is uninterested in her secret depths, in the universe inside of her. Uninterested in her thoughts. In her heart.

She doesn’t get to finish speaking.

He is always loud. His smell permeates her and replaces her own. His noise drowns out her heart beat. Erases her. Swamps her.

He ignores her pleas for solitude. Finds reasons to interrupt it. Claims he has no idea he was doing it.

He rambles on superficially. He expects his dues. He mopes or grovels at her eventual anger. He does not discuss.

He eats the rind and throws away the fruit.

I am not rind.



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