Banging on the door, begging to try it once more.
I see my hand, reaching out, as if it isn’t my hand at all. In times like these, when my consciousness is on overdrive, I would talk to myself in second person, because there is no way in hell I would go to that person willingly.
No— that can’t be me. I’m grown up, smart, rational.
But she, oh, she’s a disaster.
She’s still at that age she was, when she met this door banger, this heartbreaker, smiling her teenage dream, living her lovestruck fantasies.
She was, still is, so full of hope, so devoid of heartbreak. Her night sky is not yet tainted, her roses not yet so frail. She still smokes just for the thrill she gets out of it.
And I envy her. I envy her so much. Those carefree eyes, that careless soul…how I would kill for that sweet liberation.
But the bangs on the door get louder, and I compel myself to look in the mirror, to stare, and stare and stare. To glare at the sorry state I become when left alone, as much as I hate the sight.
“Look what he did to you,” I say to her.
“Look,” I cry, “what he did to us!”
I take in, finally, what my carefreeness, my carelessness got me.
Pain. So much pain.
And it is all I see, when I look in the mirror, all I hear, with the constant raps at the door.
One two three. One two three.
“I’m sorry, love. Please.”
Love. He always used that word so casually.
”I love you.”
One two three.
“Please, forgive me.”
At those words, I’d smile that bitter, sardonic smile my mother would, when I would claim to be a grown up at the age of seven.
So foolish, so stupid.
I had heard those words too often to know it wasn’t the last time. There are times with someone when you’ve heard sorry enough, and you know, you have to let go.
And so, we let go.