His Disbelief Was Not The Reason For My Own
Fiction
With the fullness of their chest, they believed I deserved the length and girth of their disrespect.
And every second I stayed and contorted,
there must have been a part of me that believed it too.
In the pursuit of a career in the arts,
I had settled for facades of forward-facing warmth and private disregard.
The perception of being warm often parlayed the reality.
These relationships thrived on social games, status, and currency, I had not been taught.
The fee was too high, and I could no longer afford to keep up with the Joneses.
My ego did not allow redirection to be a blessing.
I no longer had to contort or perform, exchange product and
energy for value.
The places social, parasocial or otherwise had found warmth in my denigration.
The rules of success were not measurable and my efforts were seldom enough.
I disengaged entirely,
I had decided that I was no longer the observer, I was the gate.
I had become too grown to blame voluntary suffering on anything or anyone other than myself.
There is no use in centering their comfort over my own and building towers of nothingness.
Maybe what I regret most are the parts of my upbringing
that taught me I had to earn worth. My value only lied in what I could give, pour.
The accomplishments I could present.
I’m worthy? Right?
My personhood without transaction had seldom been a reason for loving exchange or elevation.
He continued—that I would need to adjust my standards.
That maybe he couldn’t be as rich, or as handsome.
That I would need a man beneath me in every way.
His disbelief was not the reason for my own.
I did not shrink like I had many years before.
“I do.”
(2)
I’d been so long since we had spoken.
He had mentioned it was nice to see me, as if I wasn’t familiar.
But, there was no surprise in his inflection.
He had been watching me.
He does that more than he shares.
“I’m closing the cycle of carrying unilateral repair.”
I had spent time crafting a single sentence to summarize years of labor.
I imagine his delight, I had finally run out of words.
I told myself “it” was over.
No more bids for repair, after all he had harmed me.
Why am I walking towards him with band-aid and stitch?
- put us back together.
Us?
Me?
I could let this, expire as he did. Finally put the oneness back on me,
To heal. Not for him to heal me.
It’s not as if the idea of romance had even been a dream or topic,
I knew him.
All of him.
The worst parts of him.
It didn’t matter how much time passed, we couldn’t escape.
Us. This. And, I undoubtedly knew how to hold a grudge,
I had nothing left to take.
And, I had quickly learned, the spectacle of my pain had seldom invited remorse.
remorse
A word I found myself returning to. Something he could not truly hold or at minimum express.
The apology was not coming.
At least not one I deserved. Nothing would be shared.
And, my closure would always be my own.