A Letter To An Ex 0 597

You weren’t someone that was a part of my life so much as something that happened. You’re not a person anymore. Just a distant memory. A grave rotting next to the one of the girl I used to be. The girl I had to bury. I don’t remember the exact day she disappeared, but I remember the day I realized she had been gone for awhile without my noticing. Imagine dying without even noticing yourself. I still weep for her sometimes. In some ways I envy her naivety and heart, In other ways I think of her as a younger sister.

I wish I could whisper to her in dreams. Tell her to be more guarded and open her eyes to the collision that was you. But that’s the beauty of her, right? The wide eyes and constantly flushed cheeks. If only she’d seen it coming. Maybe she could have just faded from me, living life slightly behind me instead of being completely severed from the person I am now.

When things ended, my heart broke for her — not you. Even blocking things out for years, I knew our first kiss was a death wish. I would never be the same. From the first touch, I think I started to rot from the inside out. It’s a wonder my teeth didn’t crumble each time you would put words in my mouth. It’s a wonder my eyes didn’t melt down my cheeks each time you convinced me I was seeing things. It’s a wonder my bones didn’t crack under all the pressure you put on a child.

I used to wonder who hurt you. Who made you so vile and unworthy of love? Nature vs. nurture.

Did it make you feel closer to your father when you broke me? You took a piece of me I can never get back. Did you chew it up and spit it out? Or did you keep it in a locket hoping I could save you yet again? Tell me, when did you realize that even a heart like mine could only ever be lukewarm to one like yours?

I know what kind hands feel like now. They are stable and never too full to help carry me through the mountains that are my life. He is sunlight embodied. He calls me by my childhood nickname and slow dances with me in our kitchen. He knows my favorite songs and I read him books on our road trips. It is effervescent like kisses after drinking too much champagne. It is the only thing in this lifetime that I know to be true and honest. A love that doesn’t fade like polaroids but still gives the same warm feeling when held up to the light.

So while I may cry for her on cold nights, at least she doesn’t get to cry for me. I can’t be buried.

EXCERPT FROM MY BOOK YELLOWS AND PEACHES

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22 year old poet and author of Yellows and Peaches. Writer for Women's Republic. Editor and writer for Mogul. Puppy parenting with the love of my life. (twitter/ig: @brigibeeee)

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