In Which You Break

I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Just this. Being with you, talking to you, knowing you trust me, in some capacity, to the point where you can speak your truth. I will not betray your truth.

I love you. It’s true. I’ve loved you in many different ways and cannot, this time, settle on just one kind. I have been angry, so angry with you, and I don’t believe I’ll stop being so. You are self destructive and volatile and disastrous and magnetic and horribly, horribly breakable. I want to hold you, I want you to be able to cry on my shoulder. I want you to be able to break with me, but that will never, ever happen. Never. And I know it. I’m being selfish, again. As usual.

I dropped a glass today. I broke it, tiny little pieces scattered across the floor. One of them stuck in my foot. Then I tried to glue the whole glass back together. I imagine this is you – you broke once, maybe even twice, and then you were glued back together. You look somewhat like you used to, but when one looks close enough, they see the tiny cracks, the tiny lines where your skin came undone and gave away to a crumbled version of you.

I imagine you lying in a ball on the floor. I imagine that I walk into the room, see you and back slowly out. I imagine that I will slide down the wall and cry, curled up against myself so that I am a tight ball that cannot be opened. I imagine that I mourn the loss of you, even though you’re still here. I am expecting that day – I am mourning already, even though it hasn’t happened yet.

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