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Who You Were Breaking

Creative Nonfiction Writing (CNF)

By aminaPublished 6 years ago 3 min read
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It’s been two months. Two months since my first but last devotion. Two months without a hand to provide self-luxury. Two months missing the warmth of a welcoming chest belonging to my lover and the fervor of his character. Two months without a heartbeat. In these two months I have become an addict to an accustomed feeling that claws its way out of my chest. Perhaps, that was too broad of a statement.

My recollection to the very first time I knew that I, in fact, was addicted to heartbreak was when I was cheated on. But that’s pretty typical right? Yeah, like I’m the first girl to have a break through after being cheated on. A lot of people mentally assign this experience to sadness and when people ask they say it was mind deteriorating, or chest pulsating. Personally, I sat in the front row and saw my soul get gutted.

I was very self-aware and prudent that our situation was peculiar. An even one-thousand miles was between my heart and quite honestly his ego. I haven’t forgotten when I flew to meet him and I probably won’t discard the memory where the strings of my heart were strung out and played either. I embrace the heartbreak because I lived inside and obsessed with it for so many months.

Two weeks after I got back from my trip to be with him he texted me and explained that just a week after I left he got drunk and hooked up an ex. All of his exes were the problem but never him, and he’s still never in the wrong... But that’s just hypocritical of me, like I didn’t see every time my instincts laid out a red carpet to lead my ass to freedom. When I got that message, I had to sit down and weigh out my options. Mind you this was the first time I, in this situation, had met the now well-known feeling of betrayal. After talking to people with similar experiences and them telling me to do one thing I came to the the conclusion to do the exact opposite of what I was told to do and stay. Two months after, the same thing happened twice. Three times. Four. Then five. What a waste of a heart… before this I had never saw myself as someone who makes the same mistake twice, especially when that mistake is a person.

Per month, per time it seemed like. I had created a home in his apologies. I had adjusted to this method of survival of experiencing so much pain at once. The veins in my eyes were enhanced and dilapidated by the hour I waited by my screen for a text. I’ve never been so desperate for a feeling and it didn’t help that it linked me to attachment. Everyday I would love and take in this disfigured fondness like it was family. I eventually broke what was already cracking. My heart was never meant to leave in one piece, but I was. The formula for my sanity during this with its chanting repetitions that if it was my last day on earth, and I didn’t go backwards to collect his apology, he would proceed forward without me. These were the “wise” words of a settling woman.

Now, my words exactly to who stole my innocence and robbed my lungs of air on multiple occasions; I want to die on your birthday and have you feel the need to plan the funeral. I want to find it humorous when the fire in your chest when you find out I’m gone to be diffusible. I want you to bring my favorite flowers to my grave while wearing my letterman jacket. Then years later I want you to dig up all those times you left me behind and find... an empty casket.

breakups
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