Confessions

What if I pressed a confession against your skin like I used to apply the band aids? What if I told you something not even my poems know? What if I told you I still wish for your happiness like I used to wish for you? What if I told you that despite the way you caused wounds in my flesh time after time, I’d still stitch yours together if you’d only come close enough to let me?

I know that you are empty. I know because I tried to take the things you didn’t have to give. I tried to take love and you couldn’t even pump enough of it for yourself. I tried to take answers, but you didn’t have any words to form them with. (I’m sorry doesn’t count.)

I know that you pushed me over an edge you never planned to follow me over, I know that you stood and watched as my bones broke on the impact. I know that you used my blood to fake your own injuries for the next girl to wrap up in bandages. I know that she did just that, without any regard for me. I know that you practically praised her for it. I know that forgiveness is within reach. I know that I am not ready to grasp it yet. I know I will be soon.

What if I told you my love was like a blanket and instead of using it to keep you warm, you threw it to the ocean’s arms and let it sink beneath the waves? What if I told you the sea level is only still rising around you because dragging others beneath the surface is not the same as learning to swim? What if I told you that I knew your flaws like I know the lines from my favourite song? What if I told you the only emotion I have left to give you is pity and I have enough to drown you in it?

What if my real confession is that you finally taught me how to lie and I lied when I said I wished for your happiness? What if I told you that even though misery loves company, the company doesn’t love him back for long?

___________

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