Fire

He thought he was funny. He thought he was God’s gift to mankind, strutting around like some overgrown, sleazy peacock. He expected everyone to fall at his feet, to kiss the ground he walked upon, to kiss him whenever he wanted them to.

I wanted to. For a little bit, I couldn’t help but melt when he smiled at him. His smile had enough power to light up an entire city. I fell to my knees and worshipped him. Worshipped him with all that I had. My entire being belonged to him. Heart and mind and soul and self. It was his.

When he left, there wasn’t much of a warning. He told me he kissed that other girl. He told me we just were not working out anymore. Nothing was up to me. It was never my decision.

I still had his sweatshirt. It smelled like him; egotistical and pompous. It’s as if the moment he ended things, the smoke cleared. I saw him for what he was, and I found myself to be thoroughly disgusted.

I kept his sweatshirt. I kept the pair of sunglasses he had bought for me during our trip to the beach. I kept the post-it note he had written for me one morning, wishing me a good day at work. I kept the pillow in the shape of a heart he gave me for our two month anniversary.

I took it all to my backyard. I lit the firepit.

I threw it all in the fire. I burnt the sweatshirt, the sunglasses, the note, the pillow. I burnt it all and finally, after weeks of wailing and crying and screaming, I smiled.

Never again would I be taken advantage of. Never again would I be weak enough to fall for a pretty face.

I am strong. I am independent. I am reborn.

I can do this.