(this is what it is, i think:)
my heart feels like there’s a crack in it.
i feel broken, do you know how that feels? do you know how it feels to believe there is something wrong with the very foundation of you? that this thing- this thing that hurts, that bites- goes all the way down to the mud, to the guts?
and i feel like i have to keep talking about it, even though i feel guilty for talking about it, i feel needy, i feel cowardly, i feel selfish, i feel disgusting- but i have to keep talking about it, because maybe i can eventually talk my way out of it. the therapy, the writing, the chattering… if i can just get. it. all. out. it can’t hurt anymore?
(tell me that’s how it works? lie to me. i don’t even care.)
i feel broken, do you know how that feels?
i hate myself, so: it is hard to accept your love. i feel as though i have tricked you. i feel like i have fed you falsehoods and here we are and i am already sorry.
because sometimes i feel like i am trying so very avidly to repair the crack and sometimes i think i pick at it on purpose, because what if it is the only beautiful thing about me? what if it is not a wound, but a revelation, do you know what i mean? what if the secrets contained within its depth are all that matter about me? maybe these are the only stories i have worth telling.
and i re-read that and i roll my eyes, even though it feels fucking true.
hello, my name is dani and i had my heart broken by a Liar once and i believed it was the only Good Story about me and i have shaved off the corners of my own sunshine because i believed it.
i do not grieve him. no, i mourn the re-contextualization of that story. i mourn breaking my own heart in order to finally heal.
he did not love me, so it is not a very Good Story, is it?
and it’s been over a decade later, but the fact is that the nightmares are happening now. the dreams back into all my past lives as i pick apart this present life and try to make some sense of the sort-of-boy standing in the wreckage he created.
and it’s been over a decade later, but i am crying now.
the difference, i think, is i am angry now. and i wish it were sexy, this anger i feel. but no, i’m wearing fucking sweatpants and i’m covered in french fry shambles. i am no prowling great-cat, but a vicious, vindictive hippo waiting at the bottom of my ranch dressing river and i will tear you to fucking pieces if you give me half a chance, fuck you.
they said grief would be seven stages. nobody said how long each stage would take. that pain and guilt would last me all my 20’s.
i saw you nearly two years ago. you bought me too many whiskey gingers to be appropriate and i do not recall whether or not if you apologized, only that i told you it was okay, that you were okay.
because i guess i am a liar too.
but i was drinking whiskey in my favorite room and i did not want to be just a Sad Story.
you will not define me. i will stop chipping at the crack one day. i will accept that i do not have to map each and every corner and edge of the crack to understand it.
i do not have to be an expert on my own pain.
also: fuck you.