I still remember the way I smiled on my way home after we met for the first time.
I still feel the tears running down my cheeks on my birthday.
The giggles we shared in that apartment almost every night with our friends.
The way it hurt when you yelled at me and pushed me off of you in front of our friends.
I miss the way you always made time to see me every single day, or sleep next to me every night.
I spent Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years crying for you.
The gas station rose, fast food dates and turning on movies we never made it through.
Besides the constant eggshells, I can’t remember the last time we ate together or had an evening without a fight.
The backroads and countless beer bottles. Wind in my hair, hand on my thigh, feet on your dash.
Tracking locations and fireball fueled arguments. Your hand around my neck, my screams for help and mixtures of blood and sweat.
I miss the way you’d touch and hold me. How you always pulled me to be right beside you, we truly adored eachother.
I don’t miss the bruises you left on my body. The way I slapped you then made you leave because I couldn’t stand to look you in your eyes.
The sweet things you always told me; the way it melted my heart when the only thing that your pretty, blue, eyes seen were me.
All I hear are the words w*ore, b*tch, or slut flow from your mouth right onto my face like venom you spit. Cold chills thinking of the threats you told and the darkness that laid in your eyes.
All the gifts, the play fights, the showers we shared; the trust & security I felt with you. The way you always loved me.
The choke slam, the paranoia, hypocrisy; the way we never fully trusted each other. The degrading sex and constant heartache.
The way our families and friends saw the love we had for each other.
The way they all shake their head and we aren’t allowed within 300 feet of each other now.
Now here we are, six months of no contact in the last chapter we stare at this blank page together. One year we’ve known each other and compared to the last time I envisioned this date: our could’ve-been-anniversary feels different.
In no time I feel your skin while you put your hands in my hair but, I don’t flinch how I thought I might after seeing you again. After seven minutes of fanning through crinkled pages in your backseat, I walk away and I’m finally okay with closing this book.
I feel free.
Now here I am, starting a new book, once again, but with just myself. I climb into bed and I giggle because I still can’t believe that as a woman…I let it get that far, now a distant memory thankfully. And finally, I still can’t believe that as a writer… I cried over a boy, who couldn’t even read.