it took ten months for me to look in the mirror
and see the victim that I was always destined to be.

six months ago, I ran from that girl,
from the abuse and the pain and the deceit that she believed to be an unfinished fairytale.

why is it that six months later I still long
for the touch of the woman
that used the very same hands that one loved me
to throw my heart against the closest wall
and shatter it with no hesitation?

why is it that six months later I still have yet to part with the gifts given to me,
not out of love she had for me,
but relief that there was someone filling the gap between her living room couch and the bed her girlfriend occupied upstairs alone?

why is it that six months later I still justify the harsh words, the physical blows, the betrayal as what I deserved
for making her unfaithful
to a girl who was no longer her first,
and only,
love?
a girl that will someday soon be walking down the aisle and saying "i do" to the woman who spent many of her days planning a second future,
not with her,
but with me.


six months later and I still see me, a victim, reflected in my mirror

and I miss her.

where
where the
where the ****
where the **** did
where the **** did I
where the **** did you
where the **** did we
go...
go wrong?

I used to lay awake at night and imagine my future;
a big, clean house with an open-concept first floor and a large backyard, with big sliding-glass doors leading onto a beautiful deck where I would one lay sit down with a book and a mug of coffee while watching my beautiful wife run and play with our three children.
I used to picture her coming up onto the deck, smelling of fresh grass, sweat and happiness, with our children in tow
to join me on the wicker chairs.
Our youngest would plop himself into my lap, wrapping his chubby arms around my neck as much as he could and peppering my face with the sort of kisses only a toddler can give.
Our older two would take their own seats, our daughter sitting as far from her sweaty older brother as she can get, while said brother would throw himself down into his chair (with an interjection from my wife to "take it easy, Joey, you don't want to break it!") and ask excitedly what we would be eating for dinner.


bliss.