by Leonora M.

We were in love, in deep deep love. You saw parts of me that I didn’t yet see for myself. You created pieces of me that made me whole. You loved me daily, more than I could ever imagine, sometimes more than I loved myself. You wrote the words to my perfect love story on the spine of my back. The hairs on my body stood up in salutation to the tip of your fingers caressing the essence of my being. I’d lay in bed thinking “God how did I get so lucky”, she’d use the force of the universe, by you kissing me as a reply. I then told you that God is a woman, and you’d comply. In me you found your God and honestly, I was scared of that responsibility but selfishly wanted all of your attention, because you had mine. This perfect not so perfect love story of mine. I imagined us lying in bed, I mean laying in bed. This image looping over and over like my favorite song on repeat. A world we created, that only you and I coexisted in. A love story that would never end. My lover, my world, my best friend. It was just you and I. I swore I couldn’t breathe without you navigating through this life with me. I needed you then, now and in my afterlife. But suddenly I was gasping for air. My chest is tight, I was paralyzed in a moment that no longer existed, unable to maneuver through the now. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I couldn’t breathe. You abandoned me without warning, leaving without footsteps I could follow, haunted by the rejection from my entire universe without warning. Left with mere memories that I now despise, haunted by your other face that I was never introduced to until now. How could this person exist inside of you without me knowing. What ghosts were you compressing for so long that you became lost within the houses that haunted you. I guess my biggest question now is … Who are you?


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I tried with you. Despite it all, I tried,

I did …

You lived in a gated community

Barricaded and isolated from understanding the true concept of love. You spent nights staring at the wall telling fictional stories to validate your actions. Rewriting history and never giving credit. Your “try” was unsafe and quiet frankly you “trying” was a consistent invitation to war. I raised my white flag, but you continued to see red. You wanted to love me, but unfortunately, you weren’t willing to learn how. Instead you’d send your army of inner demons. I was young, so I continued to try, I fought tirelessly.

A broken frame I fought desperately to put back together. We tried. Housing so much trauma from our past we were unable to make a home. Wanting to feel safe within our exchange but many questions remained. I wanted it so bad. I ached from the constant blows received when I recklessly lowered my shield, trying to talk to you. I wanted to trust you that bad. I also thought you trusted me enough to meet me half way, but our journey did not align although I once thought our paths did. We were sore. There is no home here.

And as I mourn the picture which lies within the broken frame, as I retreat from all possibilities of finding reconcile, I realize that you were never open enough to changing your perspective. To seeing the blue sky and captivating ocean, traveling beyond to visit the unknown. A place unfamiliar to you, a language you did not speak but would have to learn, a new culture to experience, a path you never walked. In plain terms you were never open enough to travel to a place of love. All which is love and all that consist of loving me. I tried.