Counting the Broken Pieces of Myself

I’ve held back from writing my poems in the shade of your true colours out of respect for who you used to be. But here is the truth, dug up from dying soil, pried from my calloused hands.

You are a coward.

You deliberately hurt me so that I couldn’t accidentally hurt you. You ran away from me for fear that I would walk away from you. You gave me silence and ignorance in response to the explanation I gave you in some shameful attempt to hold power over me.

Friendship should never be about power, even when it is ending.

You resented me for not being able to breathe in your toxic air, but I tried, I swear I tried, no matter how suffocating it got. After all, it didn’t use to be this way, did it?

I always feel the need to write your past self into a disclaimer between every line, underlining it in red, pressing my pen down extra hard until it is digging trenches in the page.

You used to be the freshest breath of air. The gentlest breeze. The warmest ray of sunlight. The kindest smile.

But it reached a point where I viewed you with more concern than appreciation, when I stayed out of dread more than want. How many pieces would you break into if I left? Who would pick them up?

Now I suppose that is ironic because I am collecting my pieces off the bathroom floor, balancing them in shaky palms and watching as they fall through the gaps in my fingers. I try to count them but I clutch each jagged edge too tightly, until they are soaked in red.

One day I will manage to properly say goodbye to you and greet the version of me that smiled and held happiness. That day is not today.