Still Love

Even when I first met you, alight with music and alive with liquor, you were a hot mess of epic proportions. That day, I ignored it, and I fell in love with you anyway. For the next six months, I tried to convince myself otherwise. Every night that you stumbled home with alcohol on your breath and a shrinking wallet, I told myself that it was temporary. Every day that you skipped out on your job and went out to gamble instead, I drowned myself in a pretty mirage, trying to shove away the unpleasant, unwanted truth.

That you would never change.

That that was just who you were.

And still, even when I’d come to terms with the ugliness of the fact when you completely forgot about our six month anniversary, I denied it, with every fiber of my being. Because I loved you, and you loved me.

I thought, for some naive, ridiculous reason, that our love would fix you.

That’s why I waited six more months. As the flame between us grew and grew, I was so sure that the fire would eat away your sins and raise you once more from the ashes. Even when all the signs pointed left, I waited. The one year anniversary was your second chance, your opportunity to redeem yourself.

You probably don’t even remember it because of how hungover you were, but I do. You screwed up your second chance even more surely than you did your first.

That was when I realized it. I couldn’t waste any more time on someone who was broken. I couldn’t waste anymore time on someone who didn’t want to be fixed.

So I broke up with you. And although I’d kept a straight face the entire time, know that inside, I could feel something shriveling up and dying.

In the end, you called me selfish for leaving you. 

Maybe I was.

I don’t think I was.

Because darling, if love couldn’t fix you, then I hope the pain did.