When I was thirteen,
I was desperately afraid of being
different.
So much so that I got rid of priceless
and irreplaceable parts
of my childhood,
all in an obscure effort to fit in.
Now at 25 I wear my differences like
armor,
my words tempered weapons
– fuck the world if they have a problem
with it.
Except somewhere along the way I,
in my mad dash to never be pushed down,
I started being the one who pushed others.
But it was okay if it was in the defense
of what was right?
Right?
When does pushing back start to become
pushing down?
When did I decide that my pride was more
important than my best friend?
Regret is s paperweight safety pinned to
my heart,
tearing me apart with every sway of my
halting steps.
I imagine you showing up at my door
– the relief I’d feel knowing you could
forgive me
for telling you that you weren’t worth
it.
Why was I so surprised to find that when
I told you to go,
you walked away –
when I asked you to come back
you decided I wasn’t worth that trouble.
I tore myself apart with the silence
I created when I hurt you.
It was an argument that turned into a
flood.
I still keep afloat on my convictions,
but I should have taken your hand when
you reached for me,
to try to pull me from the water we
created.
Regret is a paperweight.
Maybe someday the weight will feel less.
