The Last Word

And here I am again, soaked in coffee cups full of bottom shelf vodka, covered in the crushed white dust of 2mg Xanax bars, and writing about my heartache as if I haven’t been through this so many times before. The blood’s seeping through my grey shorts and I can still feel the relief of the pocket knife you thought you hid from me well enough. The sting reminds me that you are not the only weapon capable of causing me pain, reminds me that my own hands can tear open my skin even better than you can, the blood dripping down the inside of my thigh shows me there’s more left inside of me than just bitterness and endless love for you.

I pick up my phone, blood now collecting on the hardwood floor and I tell you I’m done with you, I block your number so as to avoid the predictable, “I fucking hate you!” response that hits me harder and leaves a darker bruise than either of our hands could possibly do. It breaks me and shatters my bones far worse than any full length mirror, dinner plate or antique lamp we’ve ever owned.

Your blatant indifference and the lack of emotion in the tone of your voice is unbearable, I can’t listen to you tell me you don’t love me because you always say it in such a way that lets me know, you really mean it. Lately it’s one of the few times I know without a doubt that the words coming out of your mouth are raw and honest, that you’re telling the truth.

So instead, I block your number, sending you one last text just to be sure you know the decision was mine in the end, I had the last word and I was the one to close the door. I make you believe this is what I wanted, typing those last few words while still ignoring the blood puddled on the floor, pretending for only the amount of time it takes to type, “goodbye” and hit send, pretend like I’m simply protecting myself, standing up against what I’ve always considered to be my cruel and unforgiving God, insisting I’m worth so much more, that I deserve better, almost as if I’m trying to convince myself as much as I am you. I tell you I shouldn’t be treated like the grease on the bottom of your work shoes.. but all the while, never admitting that I believe I’m just as worthless as you do.

Fully aware of how full of shit I am, I try as hard as I possibly can to convince you I’m worth more than that small space in the back of your mind, worth more than one.. maybe two insincere, pity texts you only send to keep me quiet, worth more than that quickly scribbled love note you wrote me only two nights ago. It’s still on the fridge right next to that picture we took the last time I felt like you wanted this as desperately as I did, the last picture we took before falling back into old habits, shattered glass in the blue motel carpet and covering more bruises that my mother always seems to notice. But I love that picture, not nearly as much as I refuse to admit that I still love you.. I still love you, so much.

I tell you I’ll never forgive you for breaking my heart like this again, after you promised me you wouldn’t. But it’s okay, it’s my fault for believing we could change.. and besides, it was the mistakes I made just a year ago that are responsible for turning you into the monster you’ve become. It’s all my fault, the ache in my chest and my heart being broken yet again, I did this to you, I did this to us. And that is why my grey shorts are stained red, that’s why I went into to kitchen and grabbed that pocket knife you thought you’d hidden well enough, you didn’t. That’s why, baby, that’s why I had to be punished. The pain, the sting, the burning, this ache in my chest making it impossible for me to breathe— I deserve every bit of it, don’t you see? It’s not you, it’s me.

Like another habit I can’t quit, a cycle which never ends, like a speeding car without breaks driving right off the cliff, I’m right back here, right back where I started.. soaked in more bottom shelf vodka, covered in the crushed white dust of more 2mg Xanax bars and writing letters to you that you won’t ever read, still ignoring the blood soaking my grey shorts, the pain throbbing on the inside of my thigh and hating myself for not seeing this all coming.

At least I got to have the last word, got to lie and tell you this is what I truly wanted, never having to read your reply.