“He held her broken pieces,
Caressed them with bloody fingers
He whispered sweet nothings,
His breath laced with venom
He wrapped satin around her,
While his hands slowly choked her sanity
He held her broken pieces,
Only to break them some more.”
He seemed perfect in every way. He seemed to fit your boxes for a future. He knew what to say when, he knew when to push you and when to leave you alone. He read you like an open book and you felt like he was the one. He weaved the most beautiful stories to make you fall for him harder. He painted the liveliest pictures to blind you enough. He manipulated your trust in yourself and you let your body curl up in his web of disguise. He lay sprawled comfortably in his bed of lies and cast a spell on you to think that was home.
You fell, you fell so hard you let your identity blur out. You devoted yourself such you didn’t know where to stop. You found comfort for your broken edges in his masked layers. You wanted to be loved in the way he promised he would. You wanted your hurting heart to find something meaningful. You wanted your heart to beat out of your chest with love for someone because it’s a beautiful feeling. You desperately wanted something to work.
You were willingly forgetting how much you had worked on yourself to have found sanity. You dismissed every sign of deception with passion. You kept holding on to the sand that was quickly slipping through your fingers. You did everything to reason out every event that threatened your stability. You assumed you were better than you were before. You promised yourself you wouldn’t let this one get away.
Before you knew it, he was gone. The beautiful stories gave way to ugly lies. The venom seeped through the cracks in your soul. You scrambled to look through all the pieces that never fit before. You linked the notes to unveil the truth; the truth that shook you to your core. That ripped parts of you in ways it never had before. The pain pierced through every inch of your skin and made you struggle for air. Your eyes want to turn away from the reality to relieve from the constant breakdowns you now have. Your hope is losing itself in the mess, its lost faith in itself.
This is not the end although it may feel like it now. This is far from over. Your story is just starting. You may have been the subject of others’ stories only for a few chapters but you are never done being the subject of your own book. So breathe. Cry a lot to let go of every memory you have of his, to know exactly what you have to learn from this. Dust off the ashes of your burnt dreams and plans to make way for new ones. Collect every piece of you and fix it one by one, there’s no hurry. Trust a friend with your secrets, unburdened yourself. Rebuild your life and make it revolve around yourself, be selfish for once.
Remember, you will never be done being the subject of your own story.