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Another broken heart
Part of me wants to be angry. Part of me wants to yell and scream and call him a b*****d. This part of me wants to make him see what he's done. This part of me is selfish and loud. This part of me is jaded and smug; she's smirking at me with an I told you so in her swollen eyes. But her lips betray her attitude. She is hurt and she speaks this hurt through nasty words that flit and fly around my head. After taunting me and laughing, my other self asks in a small voice, "Why?" And then she screams, and tells me he's worthless, he's an a**, and that I should have known better. She asks me why it is I let myself fall for his southern charm, and she tells me that he wasn't worth my affection. That he is an idiot, and shallow. That he is a liar and a coward. She glares at me, saying it's my fault. I was a moron to think that some one like him could really chose me. "What a simpleton!" She laughs. If he is half as good as I think he is, then it's still too good for a girl like me.


All the while, I let her yell, crying silently in the wake of her rage. After all, she is right to throw these things in my face. She is right to call me an idiot. So I let this part of me seethe, taking no comfort in the fact that she is me. I hate that I want to be angry at him. It feels wrong and it hurts.

But there is another part, a gentler part that tells me to breathe. It's hard to breathe, and it was harder to wake. But this soft side of me is right, I need to breathe. She tells me gently that yes, it was foolish to fall for the jolly sailor, but it was right to do so. She reminds me of his kindness and his smile. She tells me he was worth it, even if when I finally got to see him, he couldn't bring himself to hold my hand.

And perhaps it is this side of me that is the crueler of the two. She is calm in her pain. It hurts her to breathe, and yet she insists that I do so any way, though the weight of it strains the heart. She is the one that reminds me I knew it was a risk to chase the crystal clarity that was him, and she is the one that reminds me why it was worth it to risk his not loving me. That at one time, he would move mountains for me. That his laugh, though goofy, was so good to hear. That he can sing so well, and that he loves his mother. Her smile is broken when she says that he is brave and he is sure and that he felt right.

And it is those things that make this unrequited love so incredibly painful. It's not like the last time I let some story book character break me in two. There is no phantom limb; no touches to remember and no glances to forget. No feelings of being wanted or needed to force away. No fluttering heart or dropping stomach as I remember the feel of his fingers any where upon my skin. At least he was kind enough not to touch me; not to bring the flesh to life.

But there is this sharp ache in my chest and stomach. I know it is the place I had built for him and all the warmth he supplied. It's burning now; that warmth. It stings and eats away at the rest of me. The smoke of it builds into my lungs. It will destroy itself as I try to push him away and move on. And as it does, the hurt will threaten to suffocate me.

I won't let it though. I can't let it. I'll move on and away. I'll try to forget the time he said, "I love you now, silly. That's all that matters." And I'll try hard not to think about how he tried to make me laugh and how I thought that might mean something. I'll forget the small laugh he gave that second night and the way he teased me. I'll forgive the fact he let me fly out, knowing full well he didn't want me. I'll try not to blame myself for his not wanting me and I'll try not to hate myself for it. I'll try so hard to learn from this. I'll try to keep him in my life while separating myself from the fact I wanted to love him.





 
 
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