Last Straw

I’m just dying to come up with an end-all, searching for that one thing that would make me turn my back on you for good. There has to be something so extreme that it would break me so thoroughly that I cannot heal it. There has to be a final straw that will shatter every tie we ever made. There has to be. Right?

Nothing about you and I was built to last. We set each other on fire just because we could, and we played truth or dare on the edges of rooftops like it was a contest to see who cared less. When my parents saw me with you, they let the air out of my tires; I wasn’t supposed to end up like that, wasn’t supposed to travel that road. But you made me feel something, and I’d forgotten what that was like. You made me ache and yearn and sob and scream. You made everything so intense after all my years spent dulling the everydays of my eternity. It didn’t matter if I felt good, just that I felt something.

Sometimes I did feel good though. Sometimes you would call me in the early hours of morning and we’d sit outside smoking cigarettes, pulling dewy clover out of the dirt. Once we got high and snuck into a theme park, only to find out you were afraid of heights. And then there was my favorite – the time you let me hold your hand in the auto parts shop after I wrecked your shitty old Honda Civic. I swore you’d kill me for that, but you haven’t yet.

So, yeah, there were good times. I suppose that’s what I hold on to.

But we have been through hell. We toured, escaped, remodeled, and ruled hell in the span of a year. I made you crazy and you drove me mad. I was your fall from grace and you never let me forget it. I bombarded you with impurities, ravished at your addiction. You branded me then, believing you had to compete with the cross around my neck. I never told you the cross was just for a fondness for geometry, though it wouldn’t matter now. We were lousy and mindless and wasted. We were everything wrong with each other.

I hold on to those things, too.

But I’m desperate to let go of them. Your weight on my mind and soul and shoulders has a way of leaving me weak and broken. It leaves me crumpled and useless, and I can’t afford to be that anymore. I can’t keep living like a piece of shit. I need more purpose and less assumption, more affection and fewer burns. What if someone comes along and, by some miracle, wants something to do with me? I can’t let you ruin that, too. So please don’t try to fix things. I want to be broken this time, not sloppily taped back together.


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