Admitting you were broken means facing it.
I never got to, I may never.
She moved to Texas. She got married and had a kid. She is not allowed to speak with me. She never knew how much I loved her. She also never knew. Her neither.
I confronted their feelings but not my own. They were all fine with that arrangement. They never called me up and said, 'Hey, you seemed hurt when it ended. How are you today? Do you want to let out your hurt?'
They call it fear or shame to themselves, why they don't give me audience. To me, they call it for the best to me. For their best, I think. Me, I never really called it anything, just quits.
It ended, each one took yet another corner of me with them - momentos. I am broken glass, sharpened by experienced, forged in the fires of of disappointment and cooled by notions of self-healing. But I am broken glass, and without want or intent I cut through the finest most delicate sheer fabric. My favourite blanky is torn - my fault.
Until I smooth out my edges I should learn to sit still.
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