I’ve been called “babe” a lot in my life. And not in a she’s hot and sexy type of way (LOL) but strictly as a term of endearment. And that four letter word can make you feel so many things. Things you shouldn’t feel.
“Babe” will trick you, and have you feeling like you’re someone special to someone who’s really not that into you and really isn’t that special to you. But – that’s the thing…men know what to say, don’t they? Some men are simply pros at hitting the sentimental nail on the head and then driving it home.
I’m no one’s babe, really. So, I wonder why these men insist on calling me babe. What happened to my name? Have they forgotten it? Or perhaps they never knew it at all.
There are other terms of endearment that people give in to when we’re feeling our way around that awkward getting-to-know-you phase. And those carefully placed terms of endearment are supposed to make it easier isn’t it? It gives a false sense of intimacy that I guess is supposed to help things along. I personally don’t like to use terms of endearment unless I really feel interested. If I don’t feel that (like you’re a sweetheart, or my honey) then it feels stiff and foreign rolling off the tongue. And then I’m left sounding distant and removed while you eagerly call me Babe…
I am the accused.
Tried, convicted, hung without fair representation.
The facts of this case remain unclear.
The closing arguments remain clouded by jealousy.
The evidence remains to be seen.
A jury of my peers are nowhere to be found.
The judge presiding over my case is you.
Need I say more?
The ebb and flow of my memories are not kind to you.
They drift into consciousness like a reel of old black and white film.
There’s no stark contrast…just muddled grays interspersed with spots of darkness.
A loss of awareness occurs because time has erased some of my pain and some of my joy.
I can’t remember if your voice soothed or if your touch bruised.
I can’t remember if you loved me kindly, or loved me at all…
Your gaze once filled with adoration and love now sears me with scorn.
When you grab me, your fist is a very real lump at my throat.
I don’t know what to say.
You speak, but I cannot make out your words.
I am more concerned with the grimace your mouth has rearranged itself into.
And your lips actually tremble with barely contained anger.
I am not afraid of you, of your rage.
I am only afraid that I will still love you after you are done.
Confessions of a Thinkaholic 