The most love I could ever show you was to give you the gift of my absence. If I stayed, I’d keep breaking my own heart – opening the wound, trying to mend it with things not meant to mend – over and over again.
You have a lot of work ahead of you, dear one. And I can’t be around any longer to encourage you, to forgive you, to tell you everything is going to be alright when it’s not.
You see, doing the right thing isn’t always easy. And it’s not even guaranteed to make you happy or feel any better. But at least I have the peace in knowing that I was strong enough to make a difficult choice – which is more than I can say for you.
I’m the type of person who wears their heart on their sleeve – except it’s not a heart, it’s a giant, oozing, bleeding mass of pulp from being squeezed too tight, from being ripped open and exposed to the world, and from trying to be pieced back together, over and over again.
You entered my life again, and I thought you could fill the hole, give me a glimmer of hope in this dark and loveless world. I looked to you to piece me back together and when you failed to do so, I realized something.
It’s not up to you to fill my heart space, which is why I’m letting you go.
You’re not the person who I should even want to bear that burden – you’d just fill my chest with your lies, your delusions, and the dysfunctional chaos in which you live.
Life will always have its ups and downs, but it’s up to me to make my own heart whole. That way when someone does come to sweep me off my feet, I won’t be swept away. I’ll be my own validation, my source of joy, my sense of peace and wholeness.
I don’t want to let you go, but I have to.
In the words of Samantha Jones, I love you, but I love me more.