Being the one to leave doesnt hurt any less, but its a different kind of hurt.
By
Updated 7 years ago,November 3, 2017
I always remember how it ends.
I watched your taillights turn the corner as you pulled into the night and out of my life.
Franca Gimenez
Theres a common theme in the leaving.
Theres always a car.
Maybe its because escaping on foot is never quick enough.
An atomic bomb of a person, I tried to diffuse the situation only to set it off.
They moved out of state, blaming me.
I cant be around you anymore.
Franca Gimenez
I cant drive by your house.
I cant know Im near you.
The embers of this one still burn.
Pressing, pressing it into my skin until Im scarred.
They know theyre doing it, they just dont care.
That is how it felt how it continues to feel with the first one.
I see a 94 Dodge Spirit and it feels like Im about to spontaneously combust.
After that, it became such a pattern I thought there was something wrong with me.
I can still remember the night you told me she was pregnant, the shadows dancing across your dashboard.
I dont remember if I slammed the door, but I know I wanted to.
I can still remember the night I picked you up, cinnamon whiskey on your tongue.
I can still remember the half-awake 5am, standing on the street.
You had to make a 3 hour drive on no sleep.
I can still remember driving out to see the stars and holding you in the dark.
You told me you had bought a ring and that it wasnt for me.
The next week we did the same thing, but there were no secrets, there were no stars.
You told me it would hurt us both too much if you kissed me goodbye.
And somewhere along this line, everything changed.
The walls I put up grew bigger, the habits I formed more destructive.
I started to create relationships with people, out of friendship or boredom or genuine feelings.
Bars and road trips became a solace.
I had been drinking and I had been driving since 16, those were familiar habits.
Easy patterns to fall into.
Confronting my fears was terrifying, uncharted territory.
As the fears grew, I understood why everyone left me before: its easier to disappear.
So I started leaving.
I helped you back to bed sometime in the early morning.
Your words were a punch in my already twisting gut.
I yelled at you, even though I never yell.
I could barely see through my tears as I kept going over the hill.
I can still remember the reflections from the puddles outside the hotel.
Instead, you said: go.
I am thinking about leaving again.
Being the one to leave doesnt hurt any less, but its a different kind of hurt.
There isnt the surprise of being left behind, and I can only blame myself for the pain.
It is my fault that I am causing the endings.
It is my fault that I am doing this to another person and to myself.
There is no second-guessing what I could have done wrong, or if things could have gone differently.
Leaving is scary, but staying is scarier.
Or maybe the scariest thing of all is not knowing what you want.
