I’m Jealous

I’m filled with celoso. Intenso. Yo estoy enfadado y quiero matar qualquier hombre que te mira, sin hablar de hablar contigo.

Would that make a difference? If I had been jealous in the extreme? Slightly?

Did I trust you too well?
Or, ought I have acted miffed when you were on those beaches spending time with another man, a friend?
Should I have been really concerned that you spent so much energy trying to hook him up with your friends?

Did you make yourself too loyal, head-over-heels in love with me so I simply basked in your glow and never considered. . .

You. That maybe you needed to feel loved, cherished and desired via something I find corrosive, ugly and destructive.
Jealousy. I want no part of it and yet, as I read about love and jealousy from the font of romantic knowledge, Scarlett Johannson, I read her saying, “I prefer a little jealousy.”


Something tells me over and over no matter the choices I might have made, could have made, should have made along the way, a Tu no importa. If I had passed the test of your needs to declare you number one without you claiming it, what would that have said about my backbone, constant compliance when you demanded of me. What ability to retain my own dignity, sense of worth and footing, would I keep? Why does it have to be about those power plays?

Was I oblivious to the games people in your country play and need as proof of love?

Or, maybe I  was starting to find you a bit oppressive and I cannot face that dato?Why only now do I feel you as the everything I had ever hoped for and like nothing I had imagined? That’s not true.

I felt that from the moment we first kissed. From the first time my hand held yours. From the first time I caressed your soft shoulder. Scarlett is wrong. You were wrong. I Love You and You simply couldn’t hold up with the kind of self-worth and belief one needs when a person is looking right through you to say, “I Love Everything about You.”


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