Page 74 of Poetry By Dead Men
Becausethislife—with the road soaring by while I write the words that have been scratching the inside of my skull for years—this feels infinitely more passionate. And it has nothing to do with loving another person.
It only has to do with loving myself.
I squeeze my pen between my fingers, turning to a fresh page in my notebook and taking a deep breath. My stomach churns, and tears prick my eyes, threatening to spill over my eyelashes as I drag the pen across the paper with a shaking hand.
I deserve more,I write.
I haven’t said the words out loud. I’m not sure I’ve even fully thought them. Or if I have, I haven’tbelievedthem.
But writing them feels manageable. Familiar in a way that makes my breath rush from my lungs in one swift whoosh of relief.
I deserve more,I write again, bigger this time.
More than what’s waiting for me at home.
More than squeezing myself into the neat, tidy boxes of what Harrison wants for his life and his wife.
I’d rather be alone than with someone who doesn’t respect me.
Someone who doesn’t believe in me.
I pause, my tears finally spilling over my lashes.
I can’t marry Harrison.
There it is.
Black ink tattooed on the page.
Permanent.
Vulnerable and messy, but honest. I wish I could fold up the paper and have that be the end of it. I’ve made my decision. Confessed my deepest, most terrifying thoughts.
But that’s not enough, because I still have to say those words out loud.
And I have to say them to Harrison.
Shame burns in my gut. I should’ve never let it get this far to begin with. Should’ve remembered my worth. But I think Harrison broke me down in such small increments that I didn’t even notice he was doingit until I was forced out of the situation. Until it was thrown in my face that he wants a perfect wife that reminds him of his mother. He doesn’t wantme, and he's been slowly stealing away pieces of who I am for years.
It's a form of abuse, isn't it? Isolating your partner from the things and people they love until you’re all that's left in their life. I'm embarrassed to admit that I didn’t even notice it was happening. I’m not sure it was even intentional on his part.
If I’m being completely honest with myself, I’m pretty certain it wasn’t. I don’t think Harrison planned some elaborate scheme to tear me down, but I think he has such a high sense of self-importance that he doesn’t see much further than his own wants and needs. And I was broken enough when I met him to not realize it, grateful for whatever kernel of affection and attention I could get.
I think back on the poems he gave to me at the beginning of our relationship. I don’t think he actually wrote most of them, but the ones that were clearly by his hand all have an undercurrent of conceit and possession, dressed up as love and devotion.
I turn my phone over and over in my hands, trying to find words that can make this easier. I don’t know what to say to make him understand, but I do know this can’t wait until I get home. Right now, I have the conviction and courage to end things, but will I in another couple of weeks?
And even more importantly, would I feel safe enough to break up with him in person?
With a deep breath, I unlock my phone and make the call.
“Harrison,” he answers.
“Hey. It’s me,” I say, my voice shaking.
I hear typing on the other end of the line before he responds. “I called you last night,” he says, his voice angry.
Maybe he deserves that anger. I’ve been distant since I left. But then again, he pushed me in that direction.
