back with a lantern

When you have deliberately suspended my flight in chaotic midair, I no sooner realized I need to mature, alone. For almost three, torrid summers since 1997, I have subserviently behaved under your binding spell. Because of you, I have become a poet, columnist, personal secretary, tutor, minion, home habitué, shock absorber, researcher, anyone a trained pet can embody.
Not until lately have I been disillusioned that instead of soaring high through the virtual wings you have gifted me with, I have seconded Icarus in his ill-fated descent. I have scantly relished the cruel thought that in the long run, you will leave me unattended up in the skies. Really, if one is smitten by gullibility and has entrusted his amateur flying stint to a seeming expert pilot, he is in complete risk of plunging the hardest in the raging sea of disappointment. I am not being cynical; I only theorize based on first-hand experience of being unransomed by a tested (others prove so) salve.
You have slipped away and deserted me so fast, like a “professional” Quiapo snatcher subtly victimizing a bejeweled coed. What you have thieved from the very start? Many young, naïve hearts, among which is mine so faithful and unchanging. I must have not expected much from you, but who has ever smartly done so when the feeling is too climatic one believes he savors unending, excitement-filled roller coaster ride? Pity me; I have overlooked that the more ebullient I go enjoying your wile, the more hurting I get when you abandon me by viciously rocketing off to your bailiwick.
Then, as my topsy-turvy mode of living starts getting rearranged (without your aid awhile), you instantly have the nerve to reappear not in your chinky-eyed looks, but with the lantern this time. What is your lantern for, light through which I can view my path bedimmed by you? However you reinvent your form, be you a governor-action star replica or a manly beauty prize winner, you carry with you the same primeval objective: authenticate that I, as any other pathetic fool, am prone to being cheated in manifolds.
I live by the adage “A lover never heals a broken heart: he just gets over it.” It is for this single reason that I dread your reemergence: I might use the similar whip I have lashed myself with earlier. Nonetheless, I am not stunted by loss, for I learn a deal from you. Therefore, you make me grow.