I came back to this small apartment, and the ghosts clung to the walls.
Memories of love,
memories of anger,
memories of us.
A thick layer of regret on every surface.
I cut myself on the jagged shards of our traumas we both shoved carelessly into the corners of that place where years of unspoken yearning was finally realized.
I could find no wound.
Yet, I bled and bled.
I feared the power of those ghosts in those first days after the end.
I raged against them in the months that followed.
Finally, finally, I exhausted tears and rage.
I spoke with those ghosts, in quiet tones as I began to make my peace.
I learned to love them and saw they loved me back.
Ours was not a love story, yet it was filled with love.
Ours was not a tragedy, yet it was filled with tears.
I hope you hate me, because I know it will be easier for you.
I don’t have that luxury.
I will never be able to forget you, little one. I will carry you and the love we shared like a scar from navel to clavicle until the day I die.
You will always be my greatest regret.
You will always be the mistake I had to make,
yet never forgive myself for making.
Thank you for your love.
Thank you for your rage.
Thank you for showing me who I really was.
Thank you for teaching me my limits, at last.