One year ago was the first time you asked me to go out spontaneously. I said yes, but I don't think you remember that and you never asked me again because that is how you limited your view of me.
We drank too much. I saw your name for me in your phone. We went on the have a painful romantic weekend; yet I still had some of the best fun of my life.
a part is made to represent the whole
You couldn't even look at me. You answered all questions with that tone.... The one that quietly stabbed apathy and disinterest.
Normally there is a tv, music, some bar drama or the ocean, but tonight there was nothing. Just me and my body art, a room full of Mainline assholes and a chatter box to keep it so we could hardly notice. He couldn't even look at me. And it felt like that weekend a year ago. I thought: I deserve so much more than this-- hugs, cuddles, care, kindness-- yet I know I need to survive and the only way I will survive is by self care
having been fractured or damaged and no longer in one piece or in working order.
"a broken arm"
So I kept on keeping on. You dropped me off and forgot all about our spontaneous outing on the Fourth of July. You shut down and I felt so ignored, thrown away and defeated.
I reach out. Speaking my truths to her. She asks questions, gives compliments freely, smiles and props me up. She knows she isn't the one, if we are to presume the one even exists. I didn't think it did until you. And I feel ashamed to admit that I still think you are that one... Just like I feel ashamed to admit I think one day he might not hate me.
the protection of oneself from harm or death, especially regarded as a basic instinct in human beings and animals
So I sit here, resisting the urge to slice, to contact you, to blame myself. Instead I use these fucking stupid skills.... To grow bigger and bolder and more that that synecdoche, than that broken 4, 15, or 36 year old, than that womyn barely hanging on....
I move on and rise.