Every dawn confirmed what she already knew; that the sun had set on them.
Time and again she returned for another dose of pain and insecurity. It was as if the first time didn’t rip her open enough.
Disregarded but not discarded, she continually opened the door even wider to him. It was a door to occasional worthlessness. To inadequacy. It all became an unspoken norm. An avoidable cycle.
Love is a word he used often. It wasn’t as if she didn’t feel his love. He meant it, he said so himself. But against her warm body he also promised to never leave her.
He hurt her only to comfort her just before he could hurt her, again.
Maybe she believed his love was the only love worth experiencing, even if it meant she bled. She was blindly addicted to him.
Every time had to be the last time. It had to be! Just how much more would her poor heart be able to withstand? He kept cutting her.
… And yet she stayed.
Maybe, when it was time, he thought leaving her would hurt. It did, at first. It was quite unbearable. Like a thick screw driving deep in her chest. She thought she would surely die. When it wasn’t happening fast enough, she thought of beating it to the grave.
But she didn’t die. She got grace in place of the grave. Instead, his absence, his strangeness became familiar. Reluctantly, she embraced it. Eventually, she accepted it.
She met someone else; herself. It was her best introduction yet. She swam in the discovery of her precious self. And she had him to thank. Because he didn’t stay.
So she silently thanked him, for discarding her.