This is not about you.
This is not about about all those times you made me feel worthless and pathetic or how you spat my own name in my face like a curse.
This is not about how your betrayal ripped a giant gaping hole in my heart that I have not yet even begun to patch up. I can only keep ripping off the bandaid to remind myself of what it feels like to hurt.
And this is not about how your name will forever feel like acid on my tongue, burning the back of my throat as I try to smother the urge to scream it out into the night.
This is not about you.
This is about me.
This is about all the hurt and torment I have endured as I passively watched you set me on fire. This is about my struggle to love myself to fill the hole that you made, as you left me to fend for myself like a lonely and wounded animal.
This about how I will rise high above the flames and spread my hatred like wildfire, so that maybe one day, it might reach you.
This is about how I hope neither heaven nor hell will take you, for you would surely be a disappointment to both.
So, no. This is not about you.
This is about me,
like it always has been.
When I was a little kid, I was a pathological liar. It was almost like I had a disease. For some reason, I could not stop lying. Every afternoon, when school let out, I would climb into my mother’s car and begin to tell her more of my creative fibs. As of recently, however, it is seldom that I lie. Apparently, I have become much too blunt of a person to hide my true sentiments. Go figure. Regardless of this, I still do lie. I am only human after all, as far I as I know.
The last lie that I have told, that I can actually remember, was when my friend asked me if I was mad at her, and I said no. What she had done to cause me to be mad at her was an act that was certainly forgivable, but only forgivable in time. I had still been in shock over what had happened and was still surprised that it had even occurred at all. I was hurt and angry and I wasn’t quite sure how to move on in our friendship. I wasn’t quite sure I wanted us to have a friendship anymore. So when she asked if I was mad at her, I lied. I told her that everything was fine and not to worry.
Part of me suspected that she just didn’t want to deal with the fact that someone on the planet Earth had a reason to dislike her, while another part of me suggested that she did not and could not understand why I would be mad in the first place. If I had, in fact, confessed that I was still mad at her, that might have just lead to even more conflict, which is what I was trying to avoid. I did not want to have to remember what had happened between us by having a heated argument about why I could not forgive her at the present time. It seemed hideously pointless to tell her the truth when she most certainly did not want the truth, but the answer that would reassure her that everything was alright. So, in effect, I gave her what she wanted. I gave her a lie.