I remember the days and months wasted, drinking too much and eating too little, demanding the collective wisdom of friends who were tired of hearing her name, desperate to know if they thought she ever loved me. But I am beginning to understand that perhaps there isn’t a truth anymore to everything, and I don’t need to know the truth anymore. What she thought was good for her may not be what is right, but these are old injuries now, and I refused to acknowledge the scars. We will grow old separately, our hearts will falter and sing, and we will fall over and over, and continue to make the same mistakes with unwavering enthusiasm.
I remember lying by her side, her head bowed in shame as she begged me to hate her but refused to give a reason. By the time she was ready to admit her error in judgment, I was into deep, discovering for the first time that the past can be so unforgiving. I was too busy delegating blame and she was busy trying to erase her misdemeanours. We were both so caught up in the moment, neither of us stopped to study our mistakes. With my back against the wall and stripped bare of all my pride, she reminded me that love is immortal but we were only human.
I remember our first meeting after we broke up in our house, sitting across from each other, trying to keep a safe distance because we weren’t sure who was more toxic. She said it was good to see me again and she sounded so genuine I almost wanted to believe her. I found her arms around me, her lips in mine and it was beginning to feel like home. Then I saw murdered love; I looked into her eyes and saw guilt of conscience; I touched my own skin and felt dirty again.
I remember throwing her favourite mug on the kitchen floor and taking twisted pleasure in watching it shatter. I thought it was fitting tribute, like the way she had shattered my life. I hated the sound of her name, her childish beliefs that being good to many entitled her to wound a few.
I remember how funny and how quickly things can change and, I am too afraid of your shadow to visit mine. It was the way you choose to remember me. We sat in mutual regret, two stupid people who fell in love with so much enthusiasm; we didn’t know how to fall out without falling to pieces. I fidgeted with my sleeves, waiting for you to speak, to make an effort, to make some substance into the words you kept on repeating. I still love you enough that you could change. Maybe because you knew you couldn’t fix your own mistakes, and you saw our meeting for what it was; an empty gesture; salt on my wounds. I have pretended you felt shame.
I remember the way you sighed that caught me off guard. Years of regret frozen in the solemn air, lingering, the world was locked into slow motion, and I couldn’t cry anymore, my tears had hardened. There was pain in your eyes too, and I was responsible, I made sure we’d suffer together. I have traded our most colourful memories for one last miserable fight with you, to disagree violently and unapologetically, to scream and shout and show no mercy, to remember you in more than just faded mistakes.
I remember how I waited for you to fall asleep while I rested my shoulders on your chest and counted your heartbeat. I heard you mumble in awkward apology and realised that I would never learn to forgive you.
Maybe because if I don’t hate you, I might have actually felt something and that could kill me. Maybe because I will trade all our memories together just to remember how it feels like to be whole again. Maybe because I am in love with this pain, this exquisite pain of being incomplete, the intoxicating allure of being broken.
I’ve spent years gifting bruises to undeserving hearts. I found solace in the pain she caused and now I promised to myself to love someone completely, but never to love so deeply again.
Another lessons learned JONIS.
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