I lost count of the number of times I told him that he hurt me; it’s like I couldn’t stop. It was this strange desire I couldn’t halt, wanting him to be reminded of the pain I was feeling, every time I was feeling it. It was every minute, of every day.
I found myself searching for ways to get through; ways to make him suffer the way that I was. So I became a scientist with my words, calculating the perfect sentences that would sink his heart and haunt his day dreams. And when those didn’t work, I’d regroup; go back to the drawing board and concoct a new set of phrases, hoping to provoke emotions that I feared were lost for good.
But no combination ever worked. Because no matter what I said, or what he said in return, it was never enough. There was no amount of words that could make him understand the damage, and “sorry” would never sound like music to my ears.
We could relive the war every day for the rest of our lives, but it would never reverse the casualties. So why do I keep fighting? I’m a survivor of the massacre marked with wounds that time would heal, but the battle feels unfinished. And so I risk it all, digging up remnants of combat hoping that maybe I can win this time.
But there’s no winners in heartbreak warfare, just veterans that learn to cope; and slowly I’m learning that my words are no match for silence- his greatest weapon of choice.