In my book tonight, I was reminded of the time I was sitting on the floor of my room and you were lying on the bed when I felt the foundation shudder beneath me. I mapped the escape route in my head, thought of the coats cause it was the end of winter, and was about to grab your hand to lead us outside if the earth shook again, threatening to bury us in three stories of wood and concrete. I told you to be ready to run upstairs on my word. How I loved you then.
And I realized that I can write about it until my fingers are sore, I can think about it into the early hours of the morning, but I can’t tell you how much you hurt me.
For in doing so, I reveal my vulnerability.
I hate those feelings. I had a relationship like that. It was right before everything.went.irrevocably.sour. He hurt me, so I had to cut the ties.
I am still on the mend. But my Love now… he is still willing to marry me.
I don’t completely hate those feelings. I think it makes me a little more human.
What would I write about, otherwise?