Proud, Broken Heart

Proud of my Broken Heart
by Emily Dickinson

Proud of my broken heart,
since thou didst break it.
Proud of the pain, I did not feel 'till thee.
Proud of my night, since thou, with moons, dos't shake it.
Not to partake thy passion, -my humility

He breaks my heart. No one else in my life has ever touched that proud organ: neather parent, 'friend', or lover. Only him.

And it IS prideful. I have always been proud that I had no attachments, that I needed no one. I was solitary, and complete. Or so I thought. That concept changed when I met him, when I got to know him. When I came to want him, desire him, and then...

Love him?

Yes, love. I'll admit it. Isn't it funny? Sociopaths aren't supposed to be able to love, but this can't be anything else. It astonishes me in its depth and fervor. I had thought that nothing could inspire such feelings except my own self-nterests.

We're not supposed to feel hurt, either, except in a purely physical or totally abstract way. But I'm not like the others of my cold brotherhood, not any more. I have felt the deep, searing torture of knowing that he hated me, that he would kill me if he only had the chance. I've felt the gentler, but still bitter ache of having him turn away from me, push me aside. His tone of voice can lash me, a single glance from those hazel eyes will score my soul. I keep coming back for more. Who'd have ever believed it? Me, an emotional maschochist.

I've been called a creature of the night, and that by those who had cause to appreciate my dark nature and talents. I own that nature now because, for some reason I can't fathom, this bright creature I love seems drawn to it. He moves through my life, giving the only light and beauty I am to be able to see these days. Since it seems I cannot walk in the sun, he is my moon.

But he isn't wholly mine yet. The struggle continues, and I'm drawing him closer, day by day. Every time we meet, I chip away a little more of the mortar of doubt and repression that holds together the walls of his defenses. They will crumble soon.

Till then, I can have only what passion I can force from him. He doesn't share it willingly, and that hurts, perhaps, the most of all. But it WILL happen.

Perhaps I should be humbled in the face of his continuing rejection, but somehow, I can't be. After all, Fox Mulder cares enough to break my heart.