When will this end?

When will this end? When will the day arrive when, instead of the constancy of painful unmet promise,  I finally receive that which has been promised? Promised again, and again, and never ever within my grasp, never in my arms. I hurt. I hurt with the wanting, with the effort of reaching, and with the loss of days and weeks and years of my life, always believing I will receive what you told me I would. I hurt. I hurt with the longing, with the aching gap of the unfulfilled. I ache with the pain of the disappointment that is coming, again, as all the other disappointments have, scheduled with military precision in the sorry, undone, unpaid, unrewarded, unrelenting farce of my foolish, generous hope. I have paid and paid again for your lies, and yet I am here, still, waiting, as if there is any agency left for me to do otherwise. I ache with the shape of all that is missing, the absence that I feel with every fibre of my self. I ache with knowing the fullness of this loss, guarded by the silence of your feigned ignorance. This is what you have done. This is what you have done to me, while you parade around in your fulsome, rewarded lives. And you, who promised you would be there for me, you have done this to me more than anyone else, and that too, is a loss that I live every day. So I ask again, when will this end? When will the day arrive when I finally get something?