This Is Me Letting Go

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I used to believe in love that burns slowly. Kind, considerate, and respectful—the kind that thrives within healthy bounds. I always imagined that life with you would feel more like a voyage, one that was scenic, one that taught us how to behold. The truth is, I just wanted to be held, too. 

What you did, what you broke—it bleeds past the heart. You've shattered my idea of marriage. You've incinerated every innocent notion I ever had about exclusivity. Was I ever something you cherished? Or have I always been occupied like land? Did you think an apology would cauterize my trust? That time would heal something arterial? Can't you see? My wound is infected, my blood is septic, and I am dying. While you're on some existential journey with your therapist, asking yourself, "Why did I do it?" I'm passing from one world to another, trying to be okay with being disrespected. 

In my heart, I know that it's over, and every time I let you into my home, it feels less like a home. Did you think I would choose forgiveness over dignity? That I'd just give you another chance? Someone who loves me wouldn't hurt me in the first place. 

I think about colors. The color of my shirt the day I proposed with a song I wrote and performed in front of fifty people. The list of colors I hadn't bought you flowers in yet, and the list of colors I already did. The color of my skin between tears and shower steam. This palette—the bleed, the blend, the assortment—it's all the color of crestfallen surrender. 

You will be remembered by all as the deforestation of my evergreen spirit. You butchered the wildlife in me. My worth—something no sky, no metric can measure—was flouted by you in numerous way, without any accountability. And the most tragic part of all of this is that the betrayal I feel now has more depth than my love ever did. 

So then, I used to believe in love that burns slowly. But that was before love burned me. 

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