Going to

I am going to make him fall for me again!

and then he has to cry blood because of neglecting me. He has to be thrown to the dump for all the aches he gave me; the aches that he wrapped so very pretty in a beautiful big box; which I opened and devour with a hundred percent curiosity and happiness and trust. He has to experience the same pain from the same blades he swung to me thousands of times. He has to bear the equivalent fear and anger and rain and storm and heat and cold that are attacking his fortress altogether and eat its ruins and soil underneath. He has to see me in the eye and tremble from top to toe regretting his wrongdoings; trembling just like I trembled hearing the news of his turning point to his future past; trembling like a mountain trembles when its guts go hot and erupt like an insane glowing tsunami, jolting to the ruby red skies ripping and torning and devastating. Leaving nothing but a blunt numbness he has to feel.

I was the mother goddes, who loved and gave and kissed and hugged and caressed. I grew grasses and trees; blew life to the breath of the humming bees and the enchanted owls. My affection spreaded like butter on a hot toasted bread, like water flooding a jug. I was plain; I was true; I was compassionate; I was mild. I was that: weak.

Tears are transforming to steel, aches are changing to rage. I am no longer the old me.