At what point do we stop trying to forget forgive the faults that met nothing but the absence of an apology?
I never had it in me to say my sorrow began from the seed I came from
The worst of me was audibly condemned and roared by the very first mouth that spoke its love for his idea of me.
Over the years, I counted each of my vibrant jigsaw pieces on the floor. And each time I saw the hand of the ‘hero’ who led me to believe I had completed his life, tear each apart.
How could I have been the one to complete the life of the ‘hero’ when I didn’t fit right into the script, right into the mold, right into the kind of light he needed.
I was broken into a million edged pieces way too many times by the same man who promised he’d break anyone who dared hurt me.
Maybe I had known broken promises before I’d known love.
Because how has he not ruined himself?
Not once, on account of all the purple bruises I collected on my skin, pricking scrapes on my knees, or the grief I’ve held inside me after I died.
He has never broken himself after hurting me with words, with force, with bare hands, or blunt weapons.
Today, I realized, at this moment, when the rest of the world celebrates all forms of love—as I, yet again. I found him behind my millionth disintegration.
I realized the passivity of love that has always been conditional; the love that is willfully given if I hold the other side of the bargain only high enough.
How could you say watching someone leave is worse? When I sat here at the person who stayed, but at what cost?
I recognize the steps from where my nonsensical fear of being insufferably insufficient and unendurably too much came from
Isn’t it sad? I had known the bitter taste of blood in my mouth before I’d known love.
The only consolation is that I could never be upset about a boy breaking my heart because my father has taken care of that.
Now, I ask. At what point do I stop trying to be the bigger person and understand that the implication was never the intention?