Letting Go Is an Acquired Taste

by Christina Hart

The first step is forced, and every step after is felt.

Some things they can never take with them, so if they want to leave, let them.

One can only dig their own grave for so long. Eventually you hit bottom and decide whether you want to get in now or later.

To sum it all up, he taught me two things: I am still not good enough, and I am too good for him.

I could never see myself as a wife but they could. Or at least they said they could. I lost count of the men who said they wanted to marry me one day, after the first one packed those wishes and left. He’s married now, to a beautiful girl with blue eyes and everything he never saw in me.

One day I will shatter hearts with all the stones they threw at me.

My body has become a tomb and I am learning how to unfeel all the hands that touched me that were not yours.

Sometimes I still see you in strangers and I hope your eyes aren’t as loveless as theirs are. I hope your dreams have built a home from your bones and I hope it’s cozy and unsettling all at the same time because for some reason you are still saving a spot for me.

There are only so many ways you can tell someone you love them until it finally sinks in that they just don’t want to hear it.

For once, words aren’t enough. I need someone to prove it.

I can still hear the banging of the drums in my heart as I told you I was done this time and you thought I was joking. I wasn’t.

Do you think she’s pretty? I think she’s pretty but I do not think watching you flirt with the pretty stripper turns me on and I do not think any of these things are impressive and I do not think I will give up the sunset on a cool evening for a show like this on a flashing stage with women whose eyes are even emptier than mine.

Promises always tasted sweeter coming from the lips of someone who would never keep them.

“You are the love of my life.” I am trying to forget that you said that. I am trying to forget November. I am trying to forget the years prior. I am forgetting to remember to forget.

Somewhere there’s an empty hall where all our songs are playing. We’re supposed to be dancing, but I don’t even hear the music anymore.

I want it to mean more. More than this regret of never knowing your name. More than being sorry I never asked. More than being sorry you never told me. I want it to mean enough to you to alter its course and plant me in the winds heading straight to you. I want it to mean more.