{-13hours for accurate posting time, Canada}

I've never wrote a breath about what happened. It was a situation, and anything I wrote rang like a defensive word in my head.

When a relationship ends badly, too often you are tempted to justify all the reasons why it would never have worked anyway. That this sour dissolution just goes to prove you right.

What happened between us, I believed I had ended it the best way I knew.

Long ago, someone broke my heart. It made me resolve never to leave like he did. It was childish, irresponsible, and cowardly. It takes courage to tell someone in person, that it's hopeless, you've lost faith, that you're sorry, that it's not going to work. That this is where it stops.

It was what would have been a good break-up, as oxymoronic as it sounds. But he couldn't accept my new life, that I'd move on, and his reactions and actions put a bitter poison in the fresh start.

I saw again, with clear renewed eyes, why I left.

Keeping silent always absolves one of responsibilities. It rejects even the courtesy of acknowledging they exist. They call, and you don't answer. Silence doesn't even grant them a response.

I kept quiet.

That silence ate me up. It hangs like a ghost around me. Permeating my new slate. You linger like an unwanted presence, an unpleasant perfume in the air.

Months on, now, I realized that I have been the irresponsible one. I had thought I put a nice, rounded full-stop to the chapter; but someone had turned it into a comma that I refused to acknowledge.

But this is still my book, and I'm still the writer of the chapter. And now I'm going to put the full-stop for myself and turn the page for good.

I realize that failed relationships are not at all like kissing bad toads.

I also realize that smearing failed relationships with constant reminders of his faults and errors and shortcomings is wrong. Trumpeting that it was bad does not absolve me of my participation.

I had been so intent and eager to build a home with my new love that I had trodden upon my past, ground them worthless, and dismissed it simply as a mistake.

I had been immature and selfish in my need to make my new love feel, loved. Cherished above all.

This is an apology that I owe at least myself. That I have discredited a good 2 years of my life and done it a great disservice. This is the last rose I'll place on the grave. I have said before, I'm closing the gates, and I'm not looking back. I hadn't then, in retrospect.

I had been aiming at a bed of roses, wrapping my tears, veiling the downs, to be happy and bouncy all the time, to justify my choice, to prove that I left for the better. I did, and I am happy. But it's only now that I realize, I don't have to prove it.

It is a heavy yolk, and I am now laying it down for good. I have been true to myself, and true to you. I am getting off this guilt-trip. I have not betrayed you. We have not betrayed you. Having hoped for months that you will realize this, and realizing that you're adamant about convincing yourself you were betrayed, that you are smearing your own name in my books, I am conceding defeat. You are not going to come around, and I have stopped hoping.

I realize that I have allowed to be put on a guilt-trip. It taints my new life. I feel sorry for something that I had not done. Pun intended.

It will relinquish its hold on me. I will unpry those grasping white knuckles and fingers, and bid the mine goodbye.

He deserves my whole heart--complete with wounds and battered scars. Shamelessly I will offer it to him now, yes. It completes the shiny, clean and smooth part that he has, that I've polished and shined so he wouldn't have to see, and deal, and hold, the ugly scars.

I have carried them with me, alone. Buried them in the deep recesses, and locked them in a closet.

I realize now that I have a right to be happy. To love again. To love anew.

I'm sorry that you have to go the rest of the way alone. I had trailed behind him, hoping you'll catch up and say goodbye and go on your way, but you persisted in digging a trench. This ostrich-obsession mars the good memories. I am trying hard. But this just about does it. I am exhausted.

Go on, live, and help me remember you well. Help me remember you were strong, and wise, and full of ideals. I don't want it etched in my mind, your weakness, your empty promises, your vehemence.

Unrealistic, I know. But all memories are snatches of reality glossed over, painted in rainbow hues and glazed in clear laquer. Some become obscure; some become idealistic illusions. But this is what I'd like, instead of the that monster lurks. This may even be reason more why we can't be--because even now, I can't accept that side of you. I don't even want to remember it. I want to remember you as someone I loved, as someone I fell for. Self-deluding--I even want to believe it doesn't exist, that volatile dark side.

So there. Good luck on that dusty road.

The dusty road is long, but I'm sure you'll find your way.

Au voir.

Ciao.

How do you say goodbye?



.

I have reclaimed myself, now. I am running, reaching for his outstretched hands and open arms. Here is my heart, love, bloody and fleshly, full of scars, but alive and pumping, and complete.