“It’s been over a year,” you say. It’s always the same reason. Or excuse, which is what it honestly was.
They say the cracks your first love leaves, never mend quite as wholly as you would like. The Japanese have mastered the art of repairing broken pieces, Kintsugi they call it, filling and replacing the emptiness, the holes with sparkling seams of gold.
Not everyone is okay with carrying the pieces of themselves. Some people choose to imagine the stories that played out never happened, never accepting blame. They become stuck in their bitterness of their past, never really letting go. But the thing about turning these pieces over day by day is that you learn not to hide the flaws and vulnerability, you begin to love and heal in a way that doesn’t ignore or pretend that you’ve been hurt.
There’s a sense of honesty in bearing that sort of pain.
In the quiet passing of this year, there have been boys. Boys who leave trails of kisses on creased sheets that stories could tumble out of, and I’ve somehow convinced myself that I’ve become a replaceable piece of pottery. Both lost and found in the blame and slander you’ve wound around me, when all I’ve done is surrendered to the truth of your betrayal, even to this day.
I am fragments of broken trust, destroyed by your little boy insecurities. Thank you for your dishonesty, for breaking my naivety.
I have never felt more beautiful, even when I will never be whole.