We don’t speak. I tell myself that it’s because he was horrible to me, and he treated me badly, and I deserve better than that. Which is true, but it’s more than that. If that is the only reason we don’t speak, then why don’t I feel more angry? If that is the only reason, then why I am consumed with guilt and shame? And I’m talking about more guilt and shame than usual. What the fuck do I feel so guilty about. What am I so ashamed of. Maybe it’s that he treated me badly, and I let it happen. I let it happen because it felt fucking good. To finally have another human being validate my deep self loathing in such a visceral manner. Maybe we don’t speak because I hate who I became and who I was with him. I hate how weak I was, and speaking to him is a reminder of my deep personal shortcomings. I can’t speak to him, because I’m trying not to indulge my self loathing. I’m trying not to be that person, to myself or anyone else. I don’t want to speak to him and be reminded of how bad things can get. How bad I can be to myself. I am ashamed of what happened. I am a coward for blaming him. I don’t want to be reminded of the darkness in myself, and that’s all I can see any time I think of him. The horror inside me, and I would let it consume me whole if it could. But it can’t, because it didn’t, and now I have to live with the scars and the bite marks of trying to be devoured by my own undoing and failing. I cannot look at him, and I cannot talk to him, because I cannot forgive him for leaving me here, alive and intact.
We were monsters together, and we were monsters to each other.