I was armed with half a deck of emotions, two thirds of a heart and eyes of a broken mirror that offered no protection to my soul. I wanted to talk about it often and whenever I needed to, the words would tangle in my mouth, come out as a compliment of a shirt, an idea that had no relevance, a conversation about the weather. I was eighteen. I wanted to be stronger, brilliant, bright like a comet in the sky. Instead, I learnt about how beds could be the most loathed places in the world, bathrooms were meant to be soaked in blood...and men with eyes like knives sometimes used them against people they loved.
I was armed with shards of strength, a misplaced sense of determination and the kind of bravery that only the damned can have. Words haunt, especially when all you have to your name is a broken little mind, a need for validation and an honest fear of losing someone you love. I was twenty. I wanted to make sure that the world around me realised I existed, I wanted to shine for my sake, my daughter's sake. Instead, I fell to pieces when it came to protecting her, felt the weight of a foot my stomach's size and realised that there was little justice in the under heart of a broken man.
I was armed with broken experiences, episodes of heartfelt sorrow and fragility that made my therapist question my mental balance. The burdens of my past were shouldered by the weakness in my knees, a shaking they associated with post traumatic stress and eyes that would better belong on the face of a much older woman. I was twenty two. Idealism, familial ties and too many a cruel woman had found its place squarely between our bed and hearts. I loved him too easily. It took time, the loss of two more children and six months of healing before I realised the truth. No one told me that love was connected with veins and veins with the life that was only lent to us for a short while before it was reclaimed by the ones who gave it to us.
You called me weak. Alone. Sad. Because I had tried to trust despite myself, learned to love beyond my abilities, reached for the stars when my feet were rooted to the ground. And for a while, a short while, I believed you. I made the sadness a habit. I made you a habit. And I was yours out of habit. And a habit is not a good thing. Good things do not hurt you, or make you feel guilty...or break your heart. Habits are vices. And they follow you around for the rest of your life.
I was yours out of habit. But habits can be easily broken. I choose to break the habit.
I choose freedom. Do your worst, I dare you. For this time, I am armed with clear eyes, a soul that is my sword and a full heart.