2. buried alive
What hurt the most wasn’t losing you. Leaving me alone was the least hurtful thing you did. It was the one thing you got right about us. That I’d had too much of you long ago, that it failed at launch but that I had too much love in my heart to admit that on my own.
And you were never going to let me go. Not until it became too much of my too muchness to witness. You started to wonder, had you taken too much from me? Had you taken too much of me? You found out before I did. You sat back and saw how small I had gotten before I ever looked down at my own hands to check.
I didn’t realize my shriveling until I saw the look on your face, the last time I saw a look on your face. Your parting gift to me was a sense of horror and shame. I thought you were telling me that was what I was supposed to feel having lost you. But the quiver in your lips was your apology to me.
And what hurt the most? You never even let me get under your skin. You never let me past the surface. Every time I reached for you, you pulled away. Every time I reached to hold you, you rolled over. You never let me know all of you and that made me want to throw myself out your fourth floor walk up’s bedroom window.
You thought it was innoncent the way you’d run and hide but it did damage. The dismissal of my love ate away at me. It kept me up at night. What could he not be telling me? How dark it could be? How far down the hole has he dug? Or is it worse than that. Did he bury himself alive?