Loving You Was Not A Mistake, It Was A Bloody Sin

I was angry today. Not at you. At myself. Unlike you, I’m woman enough to own my mistakes.

It was a cold November afternoon. I sat on the floor. With my knees pressed against my breast, arms around my legs, I wept inconsolably. There was no one in the house. I was alone. But I wish you were there. I wish you could see your only accomplishment. Your only legacy — you ruined someone’s life beyond repair. I hugged myself tighter and closed my eyes so tight to squeeze out every last drop tear out of my body.

It was the last day I thought of you as a man. You know why — it was the last day I doubted myself as a woman.

Everyone tells me to move on. Sometimes I nod at their suggestion. Sometimes I smile. How do I tell them? I like men. But I don’t trust them now. I love love. But I don’t have the courage to fall into it now. I am so broken if a man would try to fix me, I’m scared I might pierce his heart with my jagged edges. What you did to me — I can’t do it to someone else. I’m broken, not evil.

People say there are 5 stages of grief.  We jump from one stage to another. I was angry today. Not at you. At myself. Unlike you, I’m woman enough to own my mistakes. Giving away my life to build a life with you — one of the many mistakes I’ve made. Doubting my self-worth was another. The list is so long if I write about it, it will not be a poem, it will be an odyssey. And I would end up feeling like a Greek tragedy. Some say I already am.

But let me tell you something — from a broken woman to the man who broke her — loving you was not a mistake, it was a bloody sin. I’m paying the price of it with my life.

A version of this was first published here.

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