By Elizabeth Harper

How I wish he loved me. Overheard conversations. His indifference, his levity. Always a player, play-ah, bitches, beech-as. I know I'm stupid. Don't mind being stupid for him. He knows I'm stupid for him. Takes me for granted. I want to be taken for granted. Like an old comfortable sofa. Not moving, always accepting. Too comfortable to be noticed, too comfortable to be discarded. All of a sudden I'm confined, constrained, worry about taking up too much space, asking for too much, asking for anything. God, don't let me be noticed. God, make me grateful for any and every scrap of leftover love I get. I'm a child. Trying to keep safe. Waiting to be fed. A dog. I'll do anything for love. Loyal to a fault. Loyal to the death. Dumb dog. Neglected pet. Longing to belong while also longing to be free. My tears drench the pillow wet. Soaking through the crotch of my jeans, I masturbate alone at night, after he passes out asleep. He's not impressed by my masochism. Takes me for granted. How I love being taken for granted, as if I were solid, as if I were real. There's something I'm supposed to learn from this. There's something I'm supposed to become. As I wonder why he doesn't love me, as I wonder what I've done right, what I've done wrong. Tears running down my face, my muffled sobs. Lonely bedroom. I stroke the hair of my dolls. The only ones who will love and understand me. The only ones who will do for me what I do for him. Why doesn't he love me? But I couldn't handle it if he did. Why doesn't he talk to me? But he would bore and irritate me if he did. Somehow I don't exist for him except as a bank account, a piece of furniture, an unloved pet, a useful nuisance, not even a mere regret. I know I'm smart, but I'll never make him see it. He'll never see me as valuable except in terms of what I can do and be for him. I write my poems and read my books as he talks to his lovers on the phone. I hear him lie to them, seduce them, cajole them. Shall I consider myself lucky since I know the truth? He can't see me, but I want him to need me. I hide what I'm writing with stupid computer games. I let him think I like watching television, but really I just want to be in the same room as him, want him to hold me, stroke my hair. As if I were his dolly. I want to be his dolly. Always there, always perfect, never needy, always on his side, always his. But he'll always need more dollies. He'll never have enough dollies. But I want to be the one he can never throw away. The one he doesn't have to impress. The one who loves him no matter what. The one who loves him anyway. Getting off on my emotional masochism. Inconsiderate jerk. Narcissistic, attention-grabbing mole. Doesn't care if I starve to death, if I'm dying inside.