Sorry I Haven't Texted You Back

by Alicia Cook

I tell you, and tell you, and tell you and you never get it. Don’t worry. It’s not your fault . . . I get it.

problem. I shut people out. I only let them see me from certain angles, in certain lighting, at certain moments. My mother says it’s because I am independent. My therapist says it’s my defense mechanism. My ex says it’s why we broke up. My friends say they love me anyway.

I’ll love you—but not completely. I’ll hold your hand—but won’t interlace our fingers. I’ll take pictures—but won’t tag you. I’ll miss you—but never enough to ever question leaving.

I don’t tell you I can’t recall the last time my mind didn’t hurt. I don’t need to tell you any of this for you to sense that burnout is imminent. You don’t need to know the whole story to understand the story. That is why you are beautiful.

You were told I’ve always been like this—scar tissue and armor. All because someone else dripped their poison onto me, and my lonesome wounds were looking for company before they healed. Heartache is just another contagious disease.

It’s as though you’re not just the love of my life, but the love of all my lifetimes.

There’s stability in the aftermath of instability. There’s beauty in hard transitions.

How do I silence my mind like I silence my phone? Heavy lies this crown; I want to be dethroned.

Fuck the pedestal, I’m doing the best that I can. Fuck your pedestal, because I never said I was who you think I am.

Sparks did not fly when you met me, those were warning flares, d i s t r e s s signals.

You say that you should go, but you don’t leave your seat. We brace for our impact and the flames it will bring.

It’s all needed. Maybe to destroy yourself just enough so your current existence can no longer be sustained. This way, there will be no other choice but to rebuild, to come back as the person you’ve earned the right to become.

You never loved me, but your heart broke just the same the day I stopped loving you and began to love myself.

I’m not antisocial— but I don’t speak venom.

But I AM RUNNING OUT OF METAPHORS TO MAKE HOW SHITTY I FEEL more digestible, quotable, poetic.

My overthinking is only romantic when it is described as a wanderlust mind that spans galaxies; not when I call it what it is, obsessive and intrusive.

We all miss who we were back then. We’re all scared of who we’ll become, when all is said and done.

I’ve never been synonymous with keeping promises, but this is different.

I’m not trying to be dramatic, but these are the facts: breakdowns are stealthy. I just want to be healthy and happy with where I’m at.

It seems to have been misplaced somewhere beyond the saints, and snakes, and apples, and gardens. Forgive me, Father, or don’t, I’m not really looking for a pardon.

I’m sorry I’m not the person you fell in love with; I promise we’ll get back there. I’m sorry you miss the person I once was; I promise I miss that person too.

I tell you that returning feels like visiting my own grave and you finally understand why I only come back on holidays and milestones, with flowers in my hands.

You died, and I survived. You died, and I became a person you will never meet. Someone you would not have recognized on the street. And that’s what I can’t shake. You would have never known this specific incarnation, since I am certain I am only this person because you left; someone who would make you proud.

You gave me the best gift. You broke my heart. You left. And you stayed gone. I want to thank you for that.

Words climb out of your throat and you don’t recognize your own voice.

It’s being tired all day, then your head hits the pillow, and you’re awake. It’s wanting to make plans. It’s wanting to return that text. It’s wanting to call someone. It’s wanting to be how everyone expects you to be. It’s that nagging on the tip-of-your-tongue feeling, but you just can’t find the words so you feel defective. And it’s all of that happening in just one day.

I need to know why I still ache and grieve when I was the one who decided to leave. At the drop of a dime, without a sign. And the air sighs and sings: The leaving kind, ma’am, are allowed to be sad.

I am at a point in my life when I want more authenticity, less brand. More honesty, less beating perimeters of bushes to death.

Being strangers isn’t enough distance for me. I can’t unmeet you. Let’s call this what this is—you’re more of a ghost than a stranger. I loved you too much.

Now I am in your blind spot — now you will never see me again.

That I love you meant I’ll stay.

I used to think rest was the natural state of all objects; that everything that moves will eventually come to a stop. But the makeup of my mind runs on and on and on, even when I plead for a pause.

“I am other, one of a kind. There are no flaws in my design. You cannot keep me confined. Stars seek me out to sleep over. Even in dark, I find color. I will raise up those who suffer. I search for rain, not for cover. My light will adorn the sky, I’ll erupt like thunder. I am other.”

You have a ribcage like a conch shell. I put my ear to your chest, and I think I hear you falling in love; but it’s just the pump of your heart producing sound. We hear what we want to hear.

The past is not something we can simply place down on a coffee table or leave behind at an airport. The past is a part of us; sometimes for better, mostly for worse, but a part of us nonetheless. To think we can simply “let go” of the past is just as silly as thinking we need to offer up who we are today as sacrificial lambs in order to become who we will be tomorrow. It’s all so tethered and rooted that it feels fluid.

Be like water. Fill every space like it was made just for you, like you belong there. Yes, there’s a risk you’ll pour over and soak whatever is near, but water doesn’t worry about what it wets; it just flows or falls. Water doesn’t apologize,

Don’t be afraid to leave behind a mark. Be like water.

These parts—not my job or my weight or my clothes or the size of my house—are the parts of me that if I were to lose, I’d lose touch with myself and begin f l o a t i n g lost in space.

You try to count up how many versions of yourself were sacrificed in exchange for the person you are today.

What matters is you kept believing you mattered too.