“So what’s making it so difficult? I mean, why can’t you let him go?” “Because… I love him too? Because when he holds me, he means it, because he says my name when I kiss him… Because I see the way he looks at me when he thinks nobody’s watching…”
What made you think I was a Doctor A Sanctuary A Mother What made you think I was someone who could heal you What made you think it was all I did, do What made you think I wasn’t broken too? What made you think it was okay for me to pick up your broken pieces To fix you To heal you What made you think you could leave the second you recover What made
It was a decent house, surrounded by trees. It was white and made of Wood, had several floors – maybe two. Everyone else was leaving, I was watching their silhouettes dance around in the forest next to the Porch – all, except for you, slouched on the floor, bag in hand. I smiled after finding you, but I already knew where you were. I mean, my heart did. I half-closed the door, knelt down next
I’m trying to remember what it’s like, moments before I’d receive a message from you. I’m trying to remember the usual things I’d do, my heart rate. What my thoughts were. But then nothing. All I could remember was how everything else disappeared, blurred in the background, shoved in the dark – all I know are those moments. Your “Hey”, or “Hi”, or whatever you decide to say first. Whatever weapon you choose to break
This is it. I’m letting go of your hand now. Which, by the way – has stopped holding mine 21 days ago.
Last night was bad. He tried to kiss me to make me feel better. I laughed, restraining him from it. I laughed so hard that I cried. And then it turned to sad tears. I ran to the bathroom, grabbed the scissors and painted on my wrist. I cried harder because this time, the physical pain could not trump the emotional pain. I was not deserving. I was looking for someone else.