“I never touched you. I never laid a finger on you.”
You said it like you were bragging, like you were proud of yourself for keeping your hands at your side when they secretly wanted to be clenched around my throat.
You said it like that made you a good person, like the pain beneath my skin did not mean anything because there weren’t any visible bruises on the outside, no markings for the world to see.
You said it like you never opened up a dictionary, never scanned the Es, never learned the definition of emotional abuse.
You never took responsibility for your actions because you were busy passing the blame to someone else. I wouldn’t have said that if you hadn’t made me so angry was your mantra. You never learned the kindergarten lesson about being in control of your reactions, about free will, about creating your own destiny.
Even though you never said sorry without an addendum, never admitted to any wrongdoing without adding an excuse, no one ever forced you to yell. No one ever forced you to cheat or lie or lash out. You chose to do those things. You can blame your parents for raising you wrong, blame your exes for given you issues, blame the world for spinning at a tilt, but it doesn’t change anything.
You are the kind of person who causes hurt with every footstep, who leaves tremors in the ground and doesn’t glance back to see if others fall — but the second someone treats you slightly unfairly, you will explode and hit innocent people with your shrapnel.
You cannot stand anyone who looks at you the wrong way, who raises their voice at you, who sticks up for themselves because they see who you really are inside. They see the black crayola scribbles where your soul should be. They see what you are capable of doing behind closed doors with the curtains shut tight.
Your fists might not raise with your temper, but you fire hurtful words like bullets. You convince people they are worthless, they are beneath you, they are lucky to have a second of your time. You make them feel like nothing, nothing at all.
The worst part is that you use secrets to your advantage. Someone will tell you about a dark part of themselves and the next time you get annoyed with them you will use their insecurities as ammo. You will bring up those horrible, horrible thoughts they’ve had about themselves and convince them every word is true.
You are a skilled manipulator. Even when you give compliments and offer congratulations, you have ulterior motives. You are trying to gain trust. You are trying to build credibility. You are setting stepping stones down so you can get away with something in the future.
You do not care about anyone. Not even yourself.
If you cared about yourself then you would get your shit together. You would end your pity party and put your scattered jigsaw pieces back in place.
But your heart is not capable of loving anyone. Not yourself. Not your family. Not your friends. And certainly not me.