I’m sorry you made a home in me.
Because I know what it feels like to have something in front of you, and yet knowing it’s much too far from your grasp. I know that even disclaimers of jailed-up hearts and unopened doors were hard to pay mind to, especially when your heart beats you down and goes against all your logic, as if to say “give it a try anyways.”
I’m sorry you sought shelter that had been beat down, tossed around, and abandoned.
Because I know you’ve been beat down and tossed around and abandoned too.
We always seem to be attracted to what mirrors us. We always ignore the caution tape and the tall gates and the absence of light. We’re attracted to dimly lit rooms, fixer-uppers, and trouble. We always want to see potential in restoring things, no matter how broken or shattered. We always see potential in other people. And in the midst of a storm that screamed to you to seek shelter elsewhere, you ran blindly into my arms anyways.
I know what it’s like; to think you see a spark of light in the midst of chaos. I know what it’s like to hold on to a spark you’re not sure you may have just imagined. Because what if you didn’t just imagine it? What if amidst all the chaos there was warmth and shelter and arms that held you close to block out thunderous booms and strikes of lighting?
I know what it feels like to find hope in a dark place.
But I am not it. I am not your shelter.
And now I know why. I know why people hold you close just to push you away in moments. I know why people will only whisper safety and comfort throughout your body, but never shout it out for everyone to hear. I know why people only love you with the doors locked and the windows closed and the blinds shut.
Because we like feeling needed. We like to feel wanted. Because the truth is, we’re selfish.
We like the feeling of a cold dark room accompanied by a warm touch. We like the adrenaline of a storm, but we always seem to forget the mess it leaves after. We tend to forget the consequences that come with finding shelter in poorly constructed houses, in fixer-uppers. We live for the moment and not what comes after it.
There is a twisted sense of exhilaration in knowing that you could leave this all behind you; replacing all the details and moments with dust.
We forget there’s hearts on the line and a love to be questioned and a person to answer to after all the wreckage has happened and the sky clears.
I’m sorry I wasn’t there when the clouds whisked themselves away and the sun peaked through the windows. I’m sorry that I left traces of myself wrapped up in the sheets and left an imprint of myself across the bed.
I’m sorry that I tore open your vulnerability and abused it.
I’m sorry you trusted me with something as valuable as your heart and I left it there – bare, bleeding out, and begging for relief. You let down your guard and you opened yourself up and you took a risk at something you knew had the power to spit you up and toss you aside. And it did.
And I’m sorry.
Maybe one day we’ll find shelter without having the urge to abandon it. Maybe one day we’ll find a home that never burns down or hides love away like a secret or is always warm and welcoming. Maybe one day we’ll thank them for the fabricated idea of love that they placed on a platter in front of us. Maybe one day we’ll thank them for the make-shift roof above our heads. Maybe one day we’ll forgive ourselves for the mistakes we made or the pain we caused or the things we couldn’t rebuild. Maybe one day we’ll forgive ourselves for the hearts we broke and the ones that broke us.
And maybe one day you’ll forgive me for offering you a home while I still had a home in him.