I didn’t start writing because you broke me, you know?

I started writing when I learned to write,

I learned to write because I learned to read,

I learned to read when I learned to talk and I learned to talk because god knew.

They knew the world needed to hear what I was going to say someday.

Or at least that someone would.

And maybe they’re listening now

or maybe they’ve already heard

or maybe I haven’t spoken it into existence yet,

but I am not speaking for you.

Or reading for you or writing for you.

I know that now.

I am suturing the scars you left behind.

Mending the mangled remains of my heart.

And I know my voice sings of fonder memories,

of summertime, and of fresh thyme.

But winter is here.

Snow is on the ground

And every plant in that garden is gone.

Do not look back to the past you burned for the ashes are just that. Ashes.

And the only Phoenix you will see rising out of them in 10 years time,

is the person you let walk away.

The person who spent so much time loving you that they forgot to love themself.

The person who gave everything they had for the chance you might love them back.

And the person you broke.

Showing them how love is a disease you can never really cure.

And that the worst pains you can ever endure, won’t even draw blood.

You made madness a seven letter word I convinced myself to read,

again and again until I forgot it’s meaning.

The same way you did with love.

But I’m not here to yell at you.

I’m not here to demand an apology or tell you how much I am hurting.

Let’s not pretend to think you care.

Let’s not pretend I was more than a season in your series of events.

Instead let’s focus on what you lost.

And how every person who has ever let love walk away will never forget it.

You will never forget my eyes.

Or the way I laughed at your jokes

Or reminded you of the things you had forgotten.

There’s a tenth circle of Hell you see,

for those who looked love in the eye and let them walk away.

It is paved with pine needles

And all the memories you would have shared together.

All the holidays and milestones

Flying by like fireworks

And watch them burn

Feeling yourself burn with each missed opportunity.

Knowing you did this to yourself.

And I don’t know where I will be 10 years from now.

And I don’t know if I will still be writing about this feeling.

But I know that strength comes with time

And that my ancestors worked too hard.

Too hard staying alive so that I could shatter myself over a man.

I am the messy mosaic of their sacrifice

The product of their passions and dreams

And I promise.

I won’t let them down.

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