I know that ripping off the bandaid and poking at yesterdays wounds, repeatedly / incessantly, only serves to incite infection - you fester underneath my skin and rot me from the inside out. My wish is that you’ve received the same sentence, that your dreams are haunted by the voice of the girl who wrote you love letters, (jabbed to the back of our bottom drawer), like the ones you had about her ‘every night’; the same girl who was scared that you’d discover what she’d stumbled upon: capital-H her corsage, (daintily settled on the top shelf of our closet), the years showing no wear on those pretty, fake flowers. It’s hard not to imagine you holding her with the same delicacy; an idea in mind that she was something fragile, sacred - a treasured possession. You held me like that once, after our first date, when I was still granted input on how to spend our evening. We turned on Titanic and I stumbled into sleep. I rested on your chest, half-conscious, nervous that you’d see me too close-up. (’You don’t know how beautiful you are’, you said. You had no clue that I’d heard you.) We lounged in your bed all of the following day, whispering, giggling, learning; your family let us be. Out of respect for our privacy, or simply disinterest, I’d never know. Even when it was good, we both knew that it wasn’t. It was merely us murmuring half-truths in the other ones ear. A good day rarely meant anything more. Who was it an act for? I can’t help but feel that it was yourself that you were trying to fool. Wanting to immerse yourself in another other girl, one who was supposedly so different. Someone who you played-pretend desire towards, seeing only the precise, clean shots she made instead of the trigger-happy stray bullets. Did you ever look inward long enough to realize that you secretly loved her chaos? It takes no effort to see that she made you feel like you were far more special than you actually are. How embarrassing that I fell for your insecurity-driven obsession with outlandish personas, like: emotionally sound guy with divinely bestowed chivalry; or: man who embodies codes of justice and virtue that no one his age has the tools to decipher. It’s hard to conceptualize the depths of your heartlessness; asking me into your home, sleeping undisturbed next to my shivering body, watching me atrophy (fading color, wasting life) - and never feeling the spirit of contrition. Refusing ownership for holding the knowledge that it was never going to be me, but keeping it up regardless. Yes, I know that our relationship was doomed from the start, that it was paralyzing far more than it was energizing; yet I still see the person who I shared Jeff Buckley with the first time we hung out together. (Against my better judgement). I’ve refused to rush sharing anything ever since. I suppose that I’m still learning to forgive myself, instead of forcing the practice of mercy upon your memory. (I don’t owe you that courtesy. You siphoned enough of it before we were over.) Now, in learning to hold myself gently, I’m choosing to recognize the error of my ways. Giving myself grace and forgiving that girl for trying to love someone into being a better version of themselves. How beautiful that I now know the love of someone whose core warms my own, even when my soul feels stuck out in the cold. I'm cradled, recognized, known, maintained. Safe. At ease.
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You have come along ways!!!