Blood, Words, and Tears

It hurt like a punch to the chest. Worse, like a punch that left a gaping hole into which corrosive sludge was poured, dripping into my veins and spreading through my system. It wouldn’t paralyze me, I knew that. It wasn’t as bad as that one, the one that left me bleeding out. But it was still pretty bad. Bad enough to summon muscle memory: the jagged hack in my throat that would lead to the tears, the buckling knees, glazed eyes, and heavy limbs. But he was a good guy, a nice guy. Sweet, kind, and honest. So I did what I do best…I faked it. I smiled, hugged him back and said it was okay, that we were okay. He was a good guy and I still planned to see him, to be friends. Eventually, the mask would become real and things really would be okay. When it came down to it, the hurt and the tears about to burst forth weren’t his fault. I appreciated the truth and under the newly raised scab on my heart, I truly wished him well. So I lied. I smiled up into his baby blues, gut clenched against the pain, and I told him what I would have wanted to hear if the situation was reversed. Then I ran.

I booked out of there as fast as my quickly disintegrating will would allow. I promised myself that once I was home alone, I could unload it all. I could wail at the moon and let the tears rip my throat to shreds. But not a moment sooner. This pain was all about me and no one needed to witness it except the floppy blue elephant that occupies my bed. And when it finally happened, when I burst through my doors and surrendered to the welcome refuge of my room, I already knew that I wasn’t crying for him. I was crying for myself and that poor battered heart of mine. I was crying for the scars and bruises I hadn’t protected it from, for the men I allowed close when they shouldn’t have been anywhere in the vicinity. But mostly, I cried because it wasn’t over yet. I could see the pitted, twisting road laid out in front of me and I knew I had a long way to go. There was no Prince Charming for me to ride out of the woods and put my sad, bruised heart at ease. That’s not the way the story ends for me. I was not meant for the easy road or the scenic route. I was a grunt, tripping over minefields.

(continue)