Looking at photos of the guy I was first in love with,
it feels like getting something stuck in your throat.
Like hitting a bar or a branch while walking.
Like getting suddenly hit unexpectedly, slapped by someone you cared about.
Looking back at photos to find photos of me, and getting hit in the gut with memories, with my breath caught in my throat looking at him. Torture, really.
It makes me remember
remember him
remember laughter
remember someone offering to pray for me
and remembering being two parts of a whole, at last.
It was a pinnacle before the fall. Adoration before destruction.
It does not compare to the turbulence inside me now
the whirlwind of medical issues
and anger
and desperation, wanting
needing
begging
to be the best.
(to be his.)
That is all gone now.
I can remember hugging him tightly, wanting to kill someone for him, adoring that man.
I can remember the pain we caused each other
and I have learnt from it.
I am reborn.
Looking at photos of the man I am in love with makes me wonder how I ever fell for the first one.
Who would ever choose uncertainty over warmth?
I remember, but I move on.
About the Creator
AJ Birt
History nerd who likes to live in a fictional world... also pretty gay.
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