I’m out of patience. It’s been used up, wasted on the dumbest shit, on the most pointless lies ever uttered. It’s been depleted, my patience for cowardice, for the bullshit, for the lies.
It’s your world, your life. You own it. So fucking own it. You make a choice, admit it. Face it in the fucking mirror instead of cowering behind it, afraid to look anyone in the eye because you’ve wrecked yourself to the point of unknowning. You make a decision, it’s yours. You carry it, you nurture it, you love it, you breath life into it, throw kindling underneath it and let the fucker live. It’s done and there, so face it. Don’t come into my home and own a life you can’t face in the mirror, a life you can’t walk beside, because life’s too fucking short for silly shit like mistakes that eat the marrow of our bones and the ruins we’ve made of our hearts.
It’s true what they say. Honesty is the best policy.
It’s like the air in Alaska, fresh as fuck.
It’s sustainable, honesty. It doesn’t chew at anything, doesn’t decay the edges of us like the lies do. It won’t keep us up at night trying to keep the story straight, it doesn’t wreck us in our dreams, it hurts, sure, hurts like fuck, but at least I sleep at night.
It’ll sweep in tornado-style, the truth, taking the air from your lungs, then setting everything back down again, maybe a little fucked up, a little torn, but at least you know you’re living in reality.
He tells me, brushing the hair behind my ear, lips close enough to kiss, that I have a good heart. He can’t keep it straight sometimes, the rage that flashes up at another man’s transgressions, at the way I root for him anyway, defend a friendship that I probably shouldn’t, but I can’t keep it straight either. It’s hot and cold. It’s a mess of lightening-struck rage and deep-seated compassion.
He’s right about my heart though. Right when he says I have an incredible faith in the goodness of people, right when he says I always give them the benefit of the doubt.
He’s right. About me.
(For me too, maybe.)
There’s a point where the pain you’re being handed by a person you’ve loved is your own fault. The first time, sure, it’s them. It’s them hurting you, but after a while, once it happens again and again and again and you keep opening the door to let them piss all over the rug, it’s on you. It’s you. It’s me. I get to decide at this point if he hurts me or not, because that’s called adulthood. You can pick the toxicity you let into your life and the filth you choose to banish.