Love Me As I Do

An internal monologue from a lady who feels as if she's been rejected.

The nerve of some people. How couldn't he know why I'm upset? When he pretended that he could love me? Where is the possibility for confusion in that?
    As if I don't know what it is to love me.
    Loving someone like me cannot be as impassive as a spring breeze, not as gentle as feathers floating from a flight-worn bird. It's impossible!
    I'd be the one to know! To love me takes fervor and fearlessness. Fierce emotions to match a fierce mind, fierce soul. Quick wit to match my quick mouth, to stem quick tears. Someone who has faced enough that furious words only seem to be in jest, someone who has the tact to phrase rebuttals to make the situation just so - in jest! Considering I have tact enough to explain any issues without anger -- at first -- it cannot be that difficult.
      How dare he parade his mild curiosity as affection, his one excursion as enough to satisfy my deep seated need for spontaneity, my wanderlust. I should have known from his day job, his comfort in monotony, believing his words could match my own unabashed honesty.
    I am as open with myself as anybody else. I am smart enough to know where the line lies between safety in openness and safety in position. Oh, how dreadful it is to have to tread so carefully! How I wish to live in a world that I must not guard myself so vigilantly and suspiciously! I would love to share my obscene humor and innocent joys!
    Alas, advantages will be taken, especially considering the trusting nature I bear. That nature being the last of my own imperfections that I must accept. Then, I believe, I will be able so assuage my self-destruction. Besides punishment for foolishness, I know how to comfort, entertain, support, and enjoy my own company. In fact, it's preferred. Perhaps, that's why I find others' company so undesirable, with the lack in self-trust consider it is downright uncomfortable. How hopeful I become every time someone seems to be somewhat like me, somewhat capable of seeing the joys in my exuberance. Nearly every time, however, the hope-inspiring person turns out to be just as dull, as unappreciative of the beauty of the storm that I am. Almost always they display indifference at the most inappropriate of times. Do the clouds not deserve more awe than the buildings reflecting them? Are trees not full of more stories than the average person -- if not more?
     He seemed to be different. He looks at the sky. He finds the crudeness of humanity as hilarious as I. He finds words to be a powerful as weapons too.
     Or, so I thought.
     How am I to remain untouched, stoic? The intense emotions from which I've always drawn my joy, my work, have become malignant in the face of this revelation.
    He made the mistake of reminding me that you have to love yourself to be loved. I know how to love myself, I know that it's as simple as freedom of self and emotion. Something that is trying, apparently.
     In love, one will want to talk to me as much as I, him. As much as I would want to talk to myself -- that is, as much as time and life will permit. He'd be as open about everything as I, he'd think enough about me to remember the most important bits, at the least. He'd want a relationship built on words balanced by comfortable silence. One without fear of judgement or secrecy. One reinforced by a genuine, mutual desire to be close. The only things I asked to be remembered, the only things I ask for out of another.
   I will no longer apologize for anger at any person who merely pretends to meet those basic requirements, once he is aware of what I desire from another, that is.
    I will not apologize for demanding a person who loves me to love me as much as I do.

Author's Note

Things I believe I risked were clarity and redundancy. I'm open to any other issues that may be spotted.