I don’t think you get it.
I don’t think you can grasp how hard it is for me.
Every morning I wake up
And every place he touched me burns and hurts as if they are fresh wounds
As if I’m a scarred soldier returning from a war I used to think was love.
I felt ***** and disgusting.
I felt impure and rotten.
I hated myself more than I even thought imaginable.
So I romanticized the feelings of hurt and I exposed the scars on my body as if they were a sight to be seen.
All of them.
Every inch of me was not mine
Every breath I took belonged to another.
Every single moment I lived was for someone else’s pleasure.
Because that was my worth.
He took the one thing I had left that belonged to me.
I was broken but I couldn’t bare to admit to what had broken me.
I couldn’t handle accepting that I fell in love with the devil.
“These are not bruises,” I would pronounce proudly. “They are marks of true passion.”
I turned pain into something so beautiful that the word ‘love’ was simply not enough.
It was meant to be.
I told myself that everyday because you told me that there are no accidents.
“God will put the right people in your life,” you assured me.
So I believed in those words and told myself I was wrong for hurting and that I loved him so it was fine.
That was the spring when something in me died when it should have bloomed.
And that was the summer when I was too scared to fly any closer to the sun,
So it reached down and set me ablaze instead.
That was the year I could no longer believe that a God could exist among such terrible things.