Angela Bullard
Stories (3/0)
Burning Bridges
I will never forget burning your clothes. You left our apartment and ran to the arms of another girl, leaving me alone in a place filled with all of your things and nothing but memories of what was, could have been, and never would be. I was filled with so much rage and sadness when I created the pile of all the nonessentials you had left. I thought I could make that place my home, if I could just reduce you to nothing but a pile in the living room, but all the pile did was remind me that the place I WAS in that WE WERE in, was exactly that. Just a place filled with I and not WE. I hated that pile. That fucking pile that of failed love. That fucking pile proving to me over and over, that I was alone, had been left, that loving me wasn’t worth it.
By Angela Bullard7 years ago in Humans
Me, as a Part of the Problem
It is always easy to blame a broken heart on someone else. What they did or did not do or say. Nitpicking every detail of what you now find to be wrong with the person who left you with a heart broken, even if it was you who left. Excuses are never hard to find if you are looking for them, and when it comes to relationships, the easiest excuse for the demise of love and happiness is the person who is not there anymore. I spent copious amounts of time in my 20s blaming my feelings of hurt, low self-worth, and anger on those who left, or who I left without looking inward to see if perhaps myself and my actions were a part of the problem. It was always the other person who didn’t love me, see me, want me, or like me. I was so quick to point out their faults within our relationship, all the while seeing myself as only a victim of terrible circumstances.
By Angela Bullard7 years ago in Humans