A man who loves you won’t call you a *****
or a *****, or say you’re crazy, or say you’re the worst thing that’s ever happened to him
and ******* 2 hours later like somehow that will  undo the memories inside your brain of all the ugly words he’s ever said
So why am I stuck in a limbo of knowing this isn’t what I’m supposed to be spending my life like and staying because it’s comfortable
Maybe if I loved you less you wouldn’t resent me so much
Maybe if I was a little less of this and a little more of that you’d hold my hand in the car on the way to dinner
Why does loving you feel like muscle memory to me
Why does hating you feel like breathing
Why don’t I hate you enough to walk away
Maybe I’m afraid loving someone else would feel too safe after all of the wars I’ve fought with you

Isn’t it strange? How eventually we all become a slave to our sadness? All I’ve ever known is children full of longing and adults full of cynicism. It’s a means to survival and I recognize that. But who am I if not a child full of hope believing that eventually things will be the way I imagined them to be? Who am I without the trust that good is someday rewarded? Who am I without the fairytale ending with the man that saved me from it all? I want to believe it’s him. I know that it’s him. But who am I apart from finding my identity in the trauma of it all? Who am I if I’m not in survival mode? Maybe the idea of it all scares me more than I realize. As if I have nothing to offer if it isn’t the broken parts of me. As if I’ve got nothing interesting to say if it isn’t pertaining to the things I’ve been through. As if I’m nothing except the way been burned.

This is how you’re going to heal.
You’re going to prolong walking away from a man you know isn’t capable of loving you in the way you deserve. You’re going to cry. And you’re going to beg. And you’re going to become a shell of a human being for someone who leaves bruises beneath your skin, not with his hands, but with the words “*****” and “insecure”.  He’s going to kick your front door down when he comes home too drunk and you’re going to pretend he’s not just like your Father. You’re going to hold his head up while he pushes you off of him to make sure he can breathe, and you’re going to look at his phone to find the name of another woman while you’re carrying him to your bed. You’re going to break. And you’re going to tell him you’re leaving while you’re secretly praying he asks you to stay. And he will, because he always does, and you’re going to leave anyway.
This is how you’re going to heal.
You’re going to bubble wrap your vases and fold your winter coats with a knot in your throat. You’re going to call your mother crying; telling her you’re coming home. You’re going to tell her and all of your friends about the peace you have now with a pit in your stomach, hoping if you repeat the words enough you’ll believe them. Peace. Peace. Peace. What he never gave you. Safe. I want to feel safe. I don’t feel safe with him or without him. I feel safer here.
This is how you’re going to heal.
You’re going to let another man touch you because maybe they’ll erase the tattoos his mouth left on your body. Maybe if you transform into the “cool” girl no one can ever hurt you. Maybe if enough people tell you you’re ****, and smart, and too good for him you’ll start to feel like you haven’t lost anything at all. The problem is it isn’t him that you lost. It’s all the little pieces of yourself you’re trying to reignite, it’s the broken parts of you that entangled with the broken parts of him. But the broken parts of you don’t hurt the people they’re supposed to love. And another man’s hands aren’t going to rip into your skin and put stitches in the places you let him in. So you’re going to be lonely. And this is how you’re going to heal.
You’re going to fall back into him, maybe more than once. Because when you’re not with him you’re romanticizing him and that’s a habit harder to break than you originally thought. Because you’ll see him, and he’ll feel so good. In the middle of all his longing, in the way he looks at you. And then he’ll yell at you and curse at you and you’ll realize he hasn’t changed at all. He’s not going to change. Men like that don’t change. It’s okay that it took you longer than you hoped to figure this out. This time might hurt more than the first. It’s the release of hope, the release of the last sliver of you that thought there might be a life where you work out. There’s not. This is heartbreak. And it is raw and real and ugly and it feels like your bones are breaking with no one watching.
This is how you’re going to heal.
You’re going to be alone and it is going to feel like coming up for air. You’re going to listen to the music you used to love and write words that slowly heal you. You’re going to find pieces of yourself you had buried to appease him. You’re going to light candles in your bedroom and fall asleep without wondering what bed he lies in. And in time you’ll realize you hardly think of him at all. The bitterness within you quietly releases itself as you realize his inability to love you well has nothing to do with your worthiness, and everything to do with the demons within him he refuses to face. You cannot heal someone that doesn’t want to be healed. You cannot love someone into becoming the potential you see in them. And that is okay.
This is how you’re going to heal.

Sometimes I think you got the worst of me. A product of emotional abuse, a consequence of all my longing, the effect of both trauma and growing older. I wish there had been a forewarning, that I could’ve prepared myself for the time I really met you. I was high and sad and alone and I don’t want you to think of me as sad. But I was tired and frail and full of so much anger and resentment. I never looked more like my mother. You don’t know me; the dreamer, or me; the happy girl dancing in her room to music I know you’d like. He never liked my taste in music. And I think of a way to prove it to you, to somehow show you I am more than the culmination of everything he’s put me through. but I don’t know how to make someone believe in a me they’ve never seen exist. And I wonder if my life is now going to be a product of all the hurt you saw in me. I wonder if I’ll ever actually be brave, because brave girls don’t stay when he says mean things. I think I would’ve left if you asked me to, but I know there’s only so much a person can do with someone full of pain before they’re consumed by it. I can be better, I promise.

We planned seven ways to spend the rest of our life the night we met
I borrowed your passenger seat and the inside of your palms
And I still know your hands beneath the blankets, fingers searching for mine
Los Angeles isn’t cold in June but any excuse to be closer to you
somehow 2,000 miles never tainted the longing I had to know you better

You kept a toothbrush by her sink and our phone calls a secret
Grief comes, unaware of the distance
It makes my knees weak and face hot at the thought of my ignorance
Because it wasn’t a moment of weakness, and it wasn’t a mistake
It was 6 months of loving someone who belonged to someone else, blissfully unaware of my fate
Anger turns to sadness turns to anger again

And I know the scars from biting my tongue will heal
And I know my name tastes bitter in your mouth
And I know I’m not the one to blame

The most beautiful part of me is where I’m headed, and it’s a shame you’ll never get to meet me there

I know it may be an unusual time for a love poem.
But rain is hitting the roof tiles like piano keys,
the scent of coffee beans wakes me up slowly, and somehow, you make me feel innocent again.
I wince at all of the versions of me that have led to present tense.
But somehow, I already know you won’t mind.
I won’t tell you yet about where I’ve been
but you’ll smile when I say I think winter is the prettiest time to watch things grow.
How unexpected, you and the flowers both.

If I stripped all of my prettiness away and showed you the darkest parts of my heart
would you still want to stay?
It’s exhausting trying so hard to be liked.
I want to be loved.
And for more than just the way I look naked and tangled in hotel sheets.

If I fall in love with the comfort of having you around and you fall in love with the shape of my body in your bed what do we really have?
Paint a picture of our lives thirty years from now and what do we have but dried up lust and wrinkles on our forehead?

Ours is not the rocking chairs and coffee on our front porch kind of fondness.
It’s the late nights and two bottles of wine and the dragging our feet to ripping the band-aid off because we both know where it’s headed.