His Irish luggage strewn about the hallway of our building made the statement I hadn’t yet been strong enough to make myself. Behind the freshly changed locks on the door of our once shared apartment I hid, ashamed of my failures. Why was I so cold to him I asked myself? If only I had been better he wouldn’t have needed her to make him feel whole, wanted, appreciated, loved.
I couldn’t remember the last time he had made me feel whole, wanted, appreciated, or loved.
I listened from behind those changes locks as he gathered his things from the hall. I listened as he spewed hatred toward me with such intentional violence and I realized something. I realized I was, in fact, devastated.
Devastated for the pieces of me lost in him.
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