Pathetic

I should've screamed the night you confessed the sins you've been hiding from me, should have dragged every lie out of your mouth until you choked on the truth. But I didn’t. Instead, I let you see me cry, and the only words that could come out of my mouth were “why” and “it’s okay", then I walked away—though I believe I deserved a thousand more apologies.

Still, months later, the nightmares refuse to leave me alone. the “whys” and “how could yous” gnaw at me, the betrayals bleeding fresh every time I close my eyes. I ache for apologies I’ll never hear from you, and from the girls who knew I existed but still crawled into the spaces you opened for them. Do I blame them? Sometimes. But most of the time, I turn the blade inward and blame myself. And that is the cruelest cut of all. Because before you, this girl never flinched when someone tried to diminish her, and she carried her worth like armor. But now, no one even needs to belittle her. Your betrayal alone is enough to haunt her into silence.

But I suppose I should not feel this way. I should have buried it long ago. This wretched rage, this corrosive anger, this suffocating grief, or whatever stupid name it takes, is what makes me look pathetic. 

So hey, I am pathetic.