Love is a Vampire

My good friend shared this with me ages ago. I thought it was interesting.

The world is a vampire, sent to drain
secret destroyers, hold you up to the flames
and what do I get, for my pain
betrayed desires, and a piece of the game.
(Bullet with butterfly wings)



A man has only one escape from his old self: to see a different self in the mirror of some woman's eyes.
claire booth luce

Isn't that what we all strive for?
To be seen by our lover as a better person than we see ourselves?
We hope that they can look beyond all of those idiosyncrasies, those things we cannot abide in ourselves, and can see instead the person we wish to be. And help us become more like that which we desire to be.

So why does it always seem that women get the short end of this stick? That we are supposed to tolerate constant comparisons to embryonic twits that leave us only more ambiguous, more fearful to gaze at ourselves? Smaller, diminished in some way, in order to keep him happy? While he grows and blossoms under our loving touch.

De Beauvoir --I think?-- says that it's women only that possess the amazing power of reflecting a man's image back to him doubled in size...
and only half of her own.

That's how I am feeling today.
Half of myself.
The least important half of a happy couple.
My first instinct is to beat myself up for feeling this way. Some form of my vicious hatred of self pity. If you know me at all you know that I don't tolerate antagonism well. Yes, not one of my better qualities. I do not suffer fools either. And if you piss me off you'd better do it wearing armor because I like to fight. I didn't come by my former name accidently. I earned it.

And so my first instinct is to lash out when I'm feeling any form of self-loathing. Lash at myself, lash at anyone within scratching distance. Never unjustly though - it does take a lot to piss me off.

But protecting loved ones is one point where I never hesitate - and my wrath is awesome. But with every drop of blood drawn I become less. And he grows. I swear love is leeching. It sucks the blood from my very veins sometimes. I give my strength and once given it can never be restored. That part gone.

And would he prefer that? To see his lover diminished? No. That's what he finds attractive. So when she has drained her very spirit for him he looks upon her as weak. And he must look for someone new and vibrant. Someone to feed the appetite of a strong man like himself.

I find it sickening.
And gross.

And I will staunch that flow and restore myself.
No one may take from me and I have no need.
Now be gone with you.
Suck the life out of someone else.