I have an overwhelming urge to unplug from this world. Delete everything, disappear for a bit and go on an adventure. Or disappear for a long time and stop caring whether anyone remembers me. It kills me that there is a type of freedom I could never taste.
I want to kiss you again. For my own selfish reasons. I want to know if it would still feel good, or will it be muddied by guilt and invite more regret. ‘No one will love you as much as I did’ can also mean ‘no one will hurt you as much as I did’. A narcissist won’t be able to tell the difference.
‘I don’t love you’ can be the best lie you ever tell yourself. The last time she kisses you is a kind of death practice, you will grow to appreciate her absence, solitude brings new perspective after all. Or you kill her for leaving and tell yourself that’s what makes it true. Love is worth protecting. You’ve always been a fighter.
‘I still love you’ is a lie we say because it sounds better. ‘I never loved you at all’ is what we say when it hurts the most. It’s almost always too late for an apology. By the time you need to apologise it’s already too late. These scars will never fade.
You never really lose control though, do you? You’ve always been the master of the room, playing the pieces like puppets, singing your song and watching them dance to your tune. You looked me in the eyes as you twisted the knife, you intended it to hurt. You meant every word. Winning is still everything to you. It kills me that she can’t see it. I refuse to play by your rules.
I break everything I touch. I see the monsters more clearly, I’ve met your kind before. The casual charm, the nonchalance, the steady denial, the cleverly embellished narrative, the lack of remorse, the reluctance to change, the arrogance, the pride. I want to break you in half. I want to throw the first punch. I want to taste your blood.