It Doesn’t Heal Completely

 

It doesn’t heal completely. 

You will never come back to tell me sorry.

You will never find your way to my 

present to apologize for the hurt you 

caused and how you wronged me.

And I have to live and learn to 

forgive you without an apology. 

It was one thing that could have 

helped me recover, 

but I’ve got to move on without it. 

I would never know what you were thinking 

Why you did what you did. 

I would never get an explanation 

from you, even though 

it wouldn’t change anything.

But I am seated here. I am facing my grief. 

And you are doing just fine. 

And I doubt if you ever feel any 

remorse for what you cost me. 

Because years after, I am realizing 

it doesn’t go away. I am paying the 

price of whatever your intents were. 

Maybe I was collateral damage or you 

meant well before it went wrong. 

But no one means well with that 

type of hurt. Naked in blood and left to rot.

Now when my partners touches me,

I freeze up. And I think of the many 

times things went wrong. 

I think that it’s unfair that I get to carry a 

burden this heavy while you’ve moved on.

But I owe it to myself to clean your mess up. 

Because I could cry about it and how 

much I wasn’t deserving of it, 

it doesn’t change anything.

I hate that this was a cross that I 

didn’t have to carry. 

You got the planks, put in the nails, 

made the cross and placed the weight on me.

How could it not hurt? 

An injury of this magnitude, 

how could it fade off? 

It makes me question my 

dreams and ambitions, 

it visits me when I try to become. 

And most times, I never have 

anyone to hold me when I sit down 

on my kitchen floor; it feels very lonely. 

You made a mess of me and there’s

not a dream or any reality that 

can prevent the memory.

I can’t suppress it when it comes visiting. 

I wonder why me? 

But I couldn’t even wish this on anybody. 

You don’t deserve to stop me from the 

things I’ve always wanted. 

I cannot let the pains keep me from 

the form I desire to take. 

I stop and acknowledge I didn’t 

think it would be this hard. 

I didn’t think it would take this much fight. 

But it’s okay. Maybe it’s not. 

What you took from me cannot be 

bought and I’ve spent years denying 

how much this hurts and how fast it 

comes and cut me off my joy; 

I cannot lie about the cost I pay for your acts. 

I’ve forgiven you. I owe it to myself to 

at least set myself free consciously 

and when your acts decides to knock 

my door and break in, I cannot guide 

myself against the emotions it comes with.

And for years, I thought maybe I wasn’t 

strong enough. But how this hurt shows 

up would never make me doubt my strength. 

Adult me has seizures, made to take 

pills every night for the most of my life, 

and I crawl up in my bed hoping to never 

have nightmares and I hate to take pills 

because I don’t want to sleep for too 

long lest I see your face in my dreams.

That’s not fair on me. 

Sometimes when I look in the mirror,

I see it on me. It’s a scar and I sometimes

can’t cover it up. 

It doesn’t heal completely.

It taunts me.

It lives with me…