This is probably the first of a series of postmortem / detoxification / whatever-you-want-to-call-it entries. Or it may be the only one.
I know why you don't love me.
You don't love me because, since the beginning, you've tried to mold me into something I'm not.
I loved my freedom, but you tied a leash to my neck.
I brought you light, but you desired my darkness.
You wanted me to wear the accoutrements of a woman of the night.
The short skirts, the low necklines, the high heels.
The stockings that you loved.
You called me a hippie like it's an insult.
You cursed my intuition.
You mocked my imagination.
You enjoyed the pleasures that my love brought to you, but you rejected its intensity, even if the intensity itself created the pleasures.
Maybe if you opened your eyes and saw me for who I am, instead of trying to mold me, maybe you could have loved me as I love you.
Or maybe not.