I wrote this three years ago about a past relationship – one that tore at my very fabric daily. Oh, I’m really-reading so very much of what I wrote then – when everything was confusing and painful and the gaslighting had become all too much for me to believe I was sane any more….
This was written for Six-Years-An-Asshole, but today I am repurposing it for me and for anybody in the universe who needs it.
Slowly – oh so slowly – I am taking back every ounce of energy I expended and I will make every drop, every tear, every broken memory worth something so much more.
A cold wind doth bloweth in her heart. She draws the curtains closed on love one final time.
There is nothing left here in this barren living room. Devoid of all warmth and decoration.
She breathes deep. One final sweep. A reminder of all the reasons to leave.
She swam here once, in a sea of hopes and dreams. Foolish playgrounds and never-beens. A palace riddled with dust. Doorways long seized shut down the hall.
Off she walks. Out the rusted back gate through a garden overrun with weeds. Shattered glass at her feet. Remnants of what might have been.
No pause of goodbye. No flutter of regret. There is nothing left here now but bitter, spoiled ground and ashes in a fireplace that would never fully ignite. And she knows she was right.
All those times she closed her eyes and pictured living here… and she couldn’t see it. Oh but he assured her it was a lovely place.
And kissed her face.
She said she believed in it. But she did not. And perhaps that was the greatest fallacy of all.
She knew from the start that the colours would fade from the walls. The rooms would become prisons. And the furnishings would rot away.
She knew. But they were words she could never bring herself to say.
He wanted her to stay.
So she stayed. She had nowhere else to be.
Or so it seemed.
And now she walks down the street. Leaving it all in a dirty heap. No look back. No second breath.
This is not a fixer-upper.
By Erin de Blois on April 8, 2017