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It Wasn't Love


I didn’t know I was broken. Laying between silk sheets, atop a mattress every friend says is much more comfortable than theirs, with a room every friend says is much larger than theirs...the child in me said that meant I was one of the lucky ones. I was blessed with an abundance of insurance. Endless promises of “it’s all going to be okay.”

We had the money for that.

Spending your days seeing all that you have, the idea of being worthless never crosses your mind. The feeling of loss is unfamiliar to you.

I figured a life of luxury meant I could feel no pain. That I would never know what it truly feels like to suffer.

It turns out that many have lived through trauma with no bruises to show for it. Many have felt themselves drowning in a situation but now hold far more space in their lungs than before. Instilling this idea that their pain, with no tangible markings, lacks realities justification.

The confidence in their steps tells a different story. One of love, belonging, and ease.

I was wrong. So completely and utterly wrong, that I grieve over the years my trained eyes were absent of question.

So quick was I to say, that I‘m okay. I’m alright. I would tell people this with no insight into the problems I’d later find myself solving. The damage I’d grow up repairing because I never knew. I never estimated a realization such as this one. I wasn’t ready for the ah-ha moment, that unleashed a torrent of repressed abuse: words, actions, even just a certain look in their eye...every truth behind the mirage came to light.

It wasn’t love.

Now I’m asking, why?

Who knew before I did, and why was I not warned?

There had to have been someone, who saw my words, and the way I moved my lips, wasting away inside a mask that, I’d one day find, never fit me.

Someone must’ve known that I was so lost inside the laughter. Tears surfacing from a place only my subconscious was after, desperate to restore what was once free of tribulation.

I’m broken, and I didn’t know until now. You still hold no acuity into how naked, and vulnerable you left me. Ripped open by the sheer brutality of your words, you tortured me until I praised the torment. You trained me to believe that anything I do or say is a product of your influence, and I will never know a life outside of your rule.




And as I lay broken, time healing all it can until my spine finds the strength to rise, I worship the thought of your hands callousing, the corners of your mouth cracking, the arch of your spine collapsing—becoming the same shell of human you left me as.

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