If someone does that to you
takes your heart from between your ribs
squishes it, beating, between human hands
and then gives it back to you and expects you to go on
happy healthy like before, with fingerprints
and halfmoon marks all over your insides,
and then you struggle your ribs back in place
sew up the skin and say: Right. All good.
And you love him still, for his bloody hands
and the intimate way he knows to break you—
first, I believe you are brave.
Mostly, though, I want to say: You idiot.
I know you’ve romanticized your life to death
and he’s the hero and you’re the heroine
standing on a cliff in a gloomy English village,
crying your eyes out over him and his absence and
the way he walks away and comes back, cyclical, and it’s all very
beautiful, lovely, Romantic, poetic. Cinematic, there’s a camera
panning up, right, you see it. You’ve created it.
But today I want to tell you that this is a huge fucking world,
and you have seen the barest corner of it,
and haven’t you been an accessory long enough?
Grow up, I want to say, be strong in a different way. You have been
brave for him enough. Be the center of your own goddamn life. —If I Were Honest