The Ex Vows

by Jessica Joyce

Whenever I let myself think about the beginning, I want to get out of this moment as much as I want to wallow in it.

There’s so much we need to say to each other, which means there’s nothing we can say to each other.

The praise sings through me so strongly it feels like relief. God, I need to be needed. To be held on to any way I can get it.

“It’s not about not being messy, it’s about being honest with your mess.”

“I know you’re scared. I mean, fuck if that’s not the human experience,” she says quietly. “But you deserve to let yourself feel whatever you need to. You can be messy. A disaster, if you need to. The people who love you will accept every single piece of it, I promise you.”

“It sounds dumb when you say it,” I admit. “Just not when I’m feeling it.”

“I want you any way I can have you. I want you every way I can have you. I just want it to be honest.”

Those words used to hurt, and they still do, but it’s the pain of having had something special.

It’s a privilege to have someone trust you enough to show you those pieces of themselves, the most vulnerable and tender, the least polished. It’s a show of trust to let you see them first thing in the morning, in the middle of a panic attack, right after they’ve cried. To give you a shaky smile after a messy fight. To come back to you again and again with their heart in their hands.

“I’m not saying I wasn’t scared after I did it, or that I’m not still. But I know that fear is my anxiety talking and, let’s be honest, a heavy fucking dose of being a cog in a capitalistic roller coaster you feel like you can never get off of.”

Time is a miracle. It shows you what you had, and sometimes it brings it back to you. Different. Better.