If I’m being honest, I want to tell you that I’m sorry. I want to tell you that I love you. I want to tell you that I’m thankful. I want to say that I forgive you. But I can’t.
So, instead I just have conversations with you in my head. Conversations in which you listen to me and where you smile at me in such a way that it lights up your whole face, and in turn, mine. I imagine the strength of your hands and the softness of your embrace as we talk and listen. Together.
Then I remember. And it hurts. It hurts so much that it makes me search desperately for a tangible wound, convinced that there has to be a physical spot on my body hemorrhaging from where your hatred found its mark.
And that’s when I hear it. The whisper of disappointment. Not in you, my love. In myself.
For loving you in a way that not even I can understand. For believing in a way more powerful than the ocean. For standing my ground, two feet dug into the dirt with fierce commitment long after I knew you didn’t love me back.
I don’t know why I was this way. I don’t know why I chose you. And I don’t know why I couldn’t let go sooner, with more grace, before I had suffocated us both.
But I’ve let go now and I forgive this wild, stupid, stubborn heart of mine because if I’m not allowed to love you then I might as well love myself twice as hard.