I feel like I should write something; something powerful. Something so strong that it could knock down your glass house, and build a solid structure afterword. Something so stoic that, even years from now, they’ll still remember the gusts I sent to you. I feel like I should have these words prepared, in case of some stressful encounter, and yet I do not. I don’t know what I feel, nor what I’m supposed to feel, if anything. Everything happened so fast, and everything that happened hurt like a thousand cuts; not the ones I gave myself, because those are different. Those ones hurt with retrospect, like everything I wish I was, or wish myself to be, and they’re just out of reach. Your cuts hurt like knowing what’s wrong, and being unable to fix it. Every delicate incision, a premeditated act; deliberately enforced, and endured. Your words hurt like fire, and your actions hurt like every nerve ending, burning away — slowly.
Somehow, I feel okay. I have friends, and I am loved by people who mean their kind words. I am held through sadness, and coddled when I cry. I feel the pain you left with me, and look up into eyes so loving, that those very nerves you destroyed slowly regain feeling. I speak heart-wrenching words, and yet I am met with hugs and reassurance from people I truly admire.
This is your consolation prize: You can know that you hurt me, but know that I wont be broken. I can’t be broken, or at least not anymore. This is not the way to feel happy, friend, and I am not your means to an end. Find happy within you, not within the tears of those who once loved you.