As a famous songwriter once said: I didn't have it in myself to go with grace. That was why, in all my glory and the universe in my head, I was begging on my knees for a measly gust. Me in early 2017, the year I turned 22, the sixth or seventh breakup by the same hand.
I had believed wholeheartedly that we were meant for each other, despite the rift I personally put between us. I truly believed there was nobody else for me but someone equally toxic, so beg I did. Every single time. And every single time he walked away, I made knives of his footprints and plunged them into my own chest.
Of course as time went by those very knives turned into medals I wore with pride. I didn't have to drag my feet to work, played cards with my colleagues at fast food restaurants and barrages. I ignored our 2016 ghosts on my train rides and went to piers with pilots. I held my chin up high when he walked past with his school friends. I found my identity while sticking out like a sore thumb among my cousins.
While I was picking up my own pieces, he was breaking into his. He was trying to commit to the reason he gave when he last left, you remember; the dating experience. He was getting what he wanted, but it wasn't enough, while I somehow made the mess a nice place to live in.
Only three months later, I would get thirteen missed calls from him in the middle of the night. He would send me dozens of messages on instagram after blocking me everywhere, pleading the same things I did when he was leaving.
This fed my already growing ego, even though I really didn't expect it to happen again. He did practically do the same back three years prior, bouncing back into my life each time he left me stranded. I thought it was time karma strike him instead, that I was finally the one to close the door.
No comments:
Post a Comment