06-27-2020, 11:47 PM
when you're dreaming with a broken heart
She has never been a strong girl, or at least, she has never thought so. She has withstood more pain and heartache than most should; she has been dealt the worst hands and though some would argue that she was strong for building herself back from all the broken pieces, she feels weak for breaking at all. It would be so much easier if she could have never felt at all, if she could have simply closed everything up and locked it away. If she could have taken the pain and humiliation of what her father did to her and buried it in some dark corner of her mind, if she could have replaced Plume instead of spiraling into despair, she wonders how much different things would have been.
Instead she had broken.
Instead she had fallen apart beneath the weight of it, had succumbed to heartbreak instead of fortifying herself with it.
She had become the weakest thing she has ever known, and it’s not really a wonder that everyone chose to discard her.
She can nearly taste the pain in his voice, and when he steps forward again she does not move. She watches him with watery brown eyes, where tears glitter along the rims of them, and she knows that she cannot walk away from his pain the way he had done to her.
“Okay,” she finally relents, her voice a broken whisper, and the tears settle into the cracks. She is not calloused enough to reject him, not in any capacity. She is not strong enough to recognize her own worth, to see that she is being used like a bandaid, a balm to cover a wound that she will never heal. She is unlike her mother in almost every way, except perhaps for this one; she would rather be used than to be unwanted. “Okay,” she breathes again, and this time she fills the space between them with her body, and hesitantly she rests her damp cheek against his shoulder. She can feel his heart beating against his skin where she is pressed against him, and she tries to remember what she would have wanted when her heart was freshly broken. She can’t remember if she had wanted anything at all.
Instead she had broken.
Instead she had fallen apart beneath the weight of it, had succumbed to heartbreak instead of fortifying herself with it.
She had become the weakest thing she has ever known, and it’s not really a wonder that everyone chose to discard her.
She can nearly taste the pain in his voice, and when he steps forward again she does not move. She watches him with watery brown eyes, where tears glitter along the rims of them, and she knows that she cannot walk away from his pain the way he had done to her.
“Okay,” she finally relents, her voice a broken whisper, and the tears settle into the cracks. She is not calloused enough to reject him, not in any capacity. She is not strong enough to recognize her own worth, to see that she is being used like a bandaid, a balm to cover a wound that she will never heal. She is unlike her mother in almost every way, except perhaps for this one; she would rather be used than to be unwanted. “Okay,” she breathes again, and this time she fills the space between them with her body, and hesitantly she rests her damp cheek against his shoulder. She can feel his heart beating against his skin where she is pressed against him, and she tries to remember what she would have wanted when her heart was freshly broken. She can’t remember if she had wanted anything at all.
the waking up is the hardest part
ANONYA
