This Is Now
I suppose you were damaged when we met. Fast forward to now and you're just plain broken.
You say you're on to something new, something that will fix you and make you everything you were always supposed to be. And that none of this includes me.
The fact that you were broken in some way was not something you hid from me. The world, perhaps, but not me. I had come to believe that it was just "you". You were just short of comfortable and I accepted that. Little did I know what I really should have done is revolt against it and make you do the same. Perhaps if I had pushed you to be more than you were, more than even I thought you could be, things wouldn't have ended this way.
But probably not.
Maybe I'm part of the problem. You say I'm the key to the solution. It won't be until I'm out of your life that your life will really begin. Harsh. Hurtful. Stinging. But you say it with such apparent ease and poise that I can't help but admire the tone you use. That's the amazing thing about you: even when you're killing something you shine brighter than a supernova.
We are over. Rings are off, and so are the gloves. If friends had asked just three months ago I would have said that nothing was wrong. Nothing was wrong. I thought. Behind the curtain someone was moving the scenery of the next act of my life. It's all the same items: couch, coffee table, bed, closets of clothes - but they're rearranged and empty and in some way soiled. They will shine again with a little time and polish.
And so will I. But please do me a favor and take all your shoes. You'll need them to run far away.