We collided, already broken bodies. And we tried to redeem our relationship by ignoring our shattered selves until it was too late to put our souls back together.
Today, my brokenness is a never ending test of my faith. I still fail because I’m human. I still stumble because like us all, I fall. But I know about redemption. And grace. And God. I can’t say the same for him.
I can extol forgiveness because my heart is now built to forgive. I can forgive because I recognize when broken people make mistakes. I was that person.
Whether you accept it, that’s on you. But know that I don’t hate you. I never did. I may have been angry, confused. I may have thought of your movements to be malicious but I knew you had a good heart. Maybe that’s a fault of mine: to give grace to others who don’t deserve it. But I didn’t deserve it and my life is an example of a second chance given.
So I want to give that to others. But is that my place? I look back at us and wonder whether I made a mistake.
We met when I was trying to figure out who I was. Particularly as a sexual being. A sexual being who could now be actions over words. Men wanted me. They wanted to have sex with me. And I knew it. So I finessed them all. What I thought was finesse.
My brokenness came through to you. And you saw it. And I used every play I had in the book to catch you and it wasn’t working. But I wanted you. You were the trophy I needed in my case. It wasn’t because you were a rapper, I dated those. It wasn’t because people knew you. Popular thugs were my cup of tea. Dangerous? Not even. The men I dated were scary.
But you scared me. Felt intimidated by your presence alone. Didn’t know that it would manifest into me freezing up at the mere thought of speaking to you. My silence in your presence was my present to you. I needed you to know that I feared you.
I don’t fear you anymore. Fearing broken people is failure. Why fear someone that has faults like you?
But I’m about to sit across from you for the first time in four years. And I wonder if I’ll twitch. A part of me wants to twitch. I don’t want to feel dead near you. But the death of the girl you knew back then is enough for me to crave being alive in your presence. I need you to see my breathe.
Maybe that is in response to my never-ending quest to treat my brokenness. I still live with that pride, that vanity. That will to be subjugated by the men who don’t really care about me.
A false sense of pride.
And you were the amalgamation of that so what gives?