She's Gone

There are times I feel as though I'm living in the shadows of someone else. It's weary mind work to wonder who it is people see when they look at me, who it is they hear when they hear me speak. Smoke and mirrors. Sometimes I'll stare at my reflection in the mirror, waiting to see what they see. I spend too much of my time worrying about this frivolous shit that won't matter in a year. But here I am. Because that's the face of anxiety. Picking up pieces that shouldn't matter until they cut you and tear up your mind.

The other woman. The one who took you away. The one who left you and I can see her fingerprints on your heart. The one who stole the pretty little picture-perfect life I tried to build with you. Or the one who broke you so badly that even if I were here 100%, you would never see me because her abuse is drowning you. The one who was perfect and now I have to match her splendor.

I've read too many stories with too many happy endings. Watched too many Disney movies with surreal prince charmings.

I don't want perfection. I just want to know someone gives a fuck. That's all. I don't need damn roses and diamonds and glitter and sparkle. I want consistency. I don't want to wonder. I don't want to guess.

Too many stories with happy endings. Which is why I write the stories with tragic endings. Because to me, that is the truth of life. And I'm tired of the illusions.

Fuck it. I'm not picking up her pieces anymore. Once upon a time, I was the wife. Once upon a time I was the other woman. Good-bye to the pieces she left behind.

I've cut my hair. I've pursued new endeavors. I've moved a little off the path, strolling among the wild flowers. I face the forest and I'm running to it now. I may get mauled by a bear, devoured by bugs, almost drown in a lake too deep and dark; but I'm gone. Living upside down. I'm tired of this world. I deserve me.