I am broken and breaking. All these pieces of mine, scattered far and wide in the aftermath of us.
Like shards of a mirror they reflect little of who I really am, and yet I can't seem to make myself believe that I was ever anything more than these fractured parts.
In the shattered glass I see pain and insecurity and self-loathing. A love that runs deep enough within me to poison me from the inside out, killing me slowly.
I close my eyes and see memories I didn't realize I wanted to forget.
I never knew of a happiness that could hurt you, had never felt anything like it until that smile started flashing behind my closed eyelids at night.
As much as it pained me to remember, I was grateful to look back on a time when I had hope of you feeling the same way. That hope, that feeling in my chest that you wanted me back, has left me.
In its place was the type of crushing sadness that pushes the air out of my lungs every time I saw you in the hallway.
The worst part of wanting you was knowing that nothing in your life is different.
Me, the one who's entire world was crumbling down, and you, a boy with everything who doesn't even know how much he has.
Your little universe, filled with useless things and other girls to play with, had no room for me.
Before, I thought that was because it was bursting at the seams with things that surpassed me in value and beauty.
Now, I see that mine is an essence that could never be compressed into the little universe you choose to trap yourself in.
I would stretch to my full height and crack the glass of your snow globe existence.
And as I stood over you, you would see for the first time all the places that a little boy inside a little universe could never reach, and you would ask me for forgiveness.
Little boy. I would never give it to you.