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It's a beautifully tragic ordeal, to lose the one you love most, for the better.

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I’ve changed so much within these last ten years, that I could only imagine how I would look in another decade. I hope I’m still pretty, and that my kids’ friends think that I’m pretty too. Not in a weird pedo-way. I don’t want them to think I’m ugly and my child decide to never have friends over because of how ugly I am. And I don’t want my child to start agreeing with them and start calling me an ugly bitch. Next thing you know, that child is not going to live with me anymore because they’ll hate me and my looks, and they’ll grow up to be horrible resentful moms and dads.

#highthoughts

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casually denialin’ them feelings away !

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Twelve Apostles

Australia 

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Empty Apartment

It started as his first night in his apartment, with nothing but a bed. It had been a long night for him...when things ended, they ended as my last night in what had become our apartment, with nothing but a bed. As I lay here, I think of the times we made love. I think of the times we fucked. I think of the times when he held me, and I could feel his breath at the back of my neck. I can still hear him snoring. My smile returns as I feel his hands, strong, at my naval. It's funny that when I had those things, his snoring was too loud, holding me made me too hot. And now my sleep is too quiet. And too cold.

I think of the times we slept apart, too stubborn to offer the same embrace. And worse, I remember the nights he wasn't there. When my words led him to sleeping in his car instead of beside me, and when his guilt from his words made him feel unworthy of my touch that night. I remember the feeling, of sleeping without him, but I had always known there was always the next night, until that night would no longer come. It made me wish we never spent a night without the other beside us in bed. 

I leave his room, and in the hall I see the closet that was my closet , before his room became our room. The closet that held my clothes that I packed up so many times before. But I had always known that I'd unpack. Until the day came that I  had a new closet, at my moms, where my things would remain.

I can still see the couch, before i gutted it with a knife like a fish, that housed my most cherished memories with him. It's the couch where him and I began, the first time I came over and we sat and took a bong rip. The first of many snaps, and the first of many bongs. That couch is where we spoke about our dreams, our fears, our doubts, our struggles, our lies and even the truths we denied to ourselves and others. It's the couch where we watched all our shows, staying up past the rise of the sun and still with breakfast waiting. Where he packed and milked my bowls, introducing me to the best kind of music.  It was where we watched our horror movies religiously, as it gave me an excuse to be closer to him. It's where he bent me over and fucked me,  and it's where I'd climb on top of him to force our lips into the tightest embrace. It's where his hands would travel up and down my thighs. He never knew what his touch did to me. I hope to never forget.

  That couch was where we held hands, where we talked for hours or even days, and then that couch became the place we'd settle our arguments, which would take the same amount of time. I remember hating that couch, because it felt like we never left it. And now i miss it as if it were my home.

As I run my hands against the walls, I'm reminded of how we hung our paintings and we made this apartment feel like peace. And how that peace was disrupted when his fists made holes that we had to plaster, sand and paint. I remember the doors that we replaced , more than once, the glasses , the guitar, the window that I broke. I was far from innocent. 

I can hear the foulest of my words begin to echo in the hall. Telling him to kill himself. I remember the blood on the walls. And that is not a metaphor. I walk into the kitchen that would often have piled up dishes when it was my turn to do them, and I remember how clean it would look after he did them for me. Right now, the kitchen is a mess. I remember the dinners I would make, when he told me the fried chicken was too salty and when I threw away my portion of the first romantic dinner I cooked because we argued and I lost my appetite. Now I think what wasted time being mad... 

I look to the area under our fan and remembered the dining room table, where we played games that I could simply not do well with losing, even though momma always said you can't win if you can't lose. So we'd stop playing. I see my bookshelf where we had our altar, I remember where we hung jimmy Hendrix and sublime. I remember him standing there in his poncho, how he smelled, how he laughed. I remember thinking of what we would do with our new space. 

When I walk towards the bathroom I remember the showers we took together, sometimes just to take them together, others so that we could be intimate. I remember the bathtub when we had sex and I hurt his neck so bad that we was stiff for a week, I remember the baths I'd take as we smoked a blunt and talked, touching myself for his enjoyment like I did in his car on my 21st birthday. I remember setting up my iPad to take his own personal collection of nudes, I remember sitting there cutting myself and feeling unwanted as he confessed to checking out his ex lovers. The bathroom door is still ruined, demolished, from our final fight. Like me. Like him.

It was never quiet at our little place, and even now, the silence is still deafening. I hear the insults, the disgust towards me that he shared. I hear these toxic words that left my mouth, that deeply wounded his ego. But I can't stop hearing the words "I love you". we said them so often. I remember how hearing it would make me feel like I had butterflies and I was a child again, I remember how it'd make me feel desired and I'd desire him, I remember how it made me feel doubtful, because I also felt hated and I was sure he did too. 

Still, I can't stop seeing his face as he would smile and stare into my eyes, when he'd whisper it into my ear, when he'd cry into my arms... I can't stop feeling the passion, in both our love and in our anger. there is truth in the statement that you don't know the value of a moment until it is just a memory, as I never thought these moments were ones that would bring me happiness, longing, and even sadness. Sadness that I always thought there'd be another day to do things differently, sadness that the next day was no different. 

I hadn't learned sooner that the only moments that matter are right now. I didn't know that until he said goodbye to me, for i wasn't  the girl he fell in love with anymore. a limitless kind of love can't exist within hatred. I wish I had known sooner. We normalized what we did to each other and to this day, I still feel as though I would have chosen to fight with him every night than to not have him in my life. Because that is what normalizing our actions has done. And because that is what I think is love.

As I close the front door, I can't help but think that this is how his apartment looked when he first moved in. And how different and lively it became when it turned into our home. It's empty now, with nothing more than a bed, and remnants of our love and our pain. I want to say I'll miss our home, but that apartment was a tomb, a tomb that was destroyed symbolic of the our own self destruction. Home was wherever he was. 

I still wish to go back to the beginning sometimes, and when I get to my favorite moments I shared with him, to press pause. To feel the love again. So that this goodbye wasn't so filled with pain.

I took one last look around our empty space, knowing his apartment and our apartment is no longer. I returned the keys, I heard the gate slam behind me, and I cried like I have never cried before as I said goodbye.

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Villainous Love

He says that I’m not the girl he fell in love with anymore...at first I was mad, but he’s right. 

I’m not the girl I was two years ago, because I grew up, while he continued to fall.

We met in such a broken time it’s almost like he wanted us to stay there, in need of one another with pain being the glue that held us

And every moment i felt myself getting better, seeing him as sad as he was, made me want to sit in my sickness

Every accomplishment that I made, he’d say that he knew I could do it...but not once did he ever say he was proud

He said that my tough love nature was what originally attracted him to me, only to later hold resentment for my lack of compassion

But tough love is the greatest thing I could have given him.

You see, I loved him so much that I accepted being the bad guy

I accepted the hatred for pushing him too hard, even though I was only trying to motivate him to take a shower since it had been a week

I took the punches when I called him out for wasting an entire day playing video games because even though that’s his number one joy, he needed to grow up and be a man. The man I knew he was!

I took the name calling, accepted the blame, as he became more and more insecure as I voiced my own feelings

Because I became a Woman.

I didn’t skirt around the edges when it came to our sex life . I didn’t care to keep faking orgasms. I told him what i needed - and then it would be weeks until he touched me again

I stopped caring about how sensitive he was because he has at least five friends and his entire family who do that for him, he didn’t need it from me

I didn’t give him what he wanted because that's what his momma did his entire life, which left me with an entitled child

But i still loved him - loved him so much I played the villain

Sure, things that I said were definitely out of line and my delivery wasn’t always respectful...But am I wrong for saying how hard it is to respect someone who doesn’t have self respect?

I tried. I tried to talk him up, build his confidence, help him find happiness, discover self love...But then I realized I was doing all the work!

I balanced school, my shitty and scandalous job, my own depression all while trying to help someone who didn't want to help themselves.

It got so volatile he hit me with his car and made me feel weak

So volatile I told him he should kill himself . 

And to this day he will stand by his statement that I am not a good person, because I destroyed him

But what does that say about him, as he watched me trying to put the pieces of his life back together with his feet up on the couch watching tv?

Had I known he didn’t want to be helped, I wouldn't have made it my priority. But maybe that’s my fault. He told me that he was trying and I loved him, so I believed it, and made it my job. 

Until one day I felt the weight of the world crushing down on me because it wasn’t just my burden that I was carrying -

I was carrying his - and his mom's and his sisters because they made him carry theirs. And I carried his grandmother’s burden because she left it on the shoulders of her daughter! And I carried his dad’s because he was the only son and his dad had guilt and shared it with him...And he didn’t know how to not make it his own.

I was carrying the weight of a thousand people struggling to get a breath every day...Suffocated by the one person that should be able to show me love but he rather watch porn and talk about suicide. 

He said he did everything for me, that he was always there, but somehow he didn’t even see me drowning. Tells me I’m a bad person instead of seeing my pain. 

I accepted much less than I deserved, and when I became  woman, I think I stopped trying to love him for him, and chose to instead love ME.

He said I caused so much pain that it made him leave, but I don’t think that’s true. Harshly stated - 

He left because he wasn’t getting what he wanted anymore, so into the arms of a mom who would cater to that, he went

He left because I chose to put myself first and for a spoiled person, that's not acceptable.

He left because he thought he was placing me first in his life and it wasn’t being returned...(Even though I don’t think he even knows what that looks like, until I came along no one has even even put him beside them on their walk through life, always behind them he stood). 

He left because he was mean, and couldn’t handle what he would say or do. He left to run away from the guilt.

He left because he couldn’t live up to my expectations of just a functional human being, because he wasn’t functional.

He left because of my success, because of my strength, my attitude, my womanhood. 

He left because he was weak. And he blamed me for it.

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