At one time there was a monkey on my back. Both of our backs, actually. It became an ongoing joke–our way of disenchanting the very real, and very dark circumstance in which we found ourselves. The world we chose and slowly manipulated for our Selves. It was manic; and we were starry-eyed and frothy at the nose–but in love.
I loved him. He loved me back. I loved her.
I would have taken her by the hand and given her everything, personified or not. With her, I felt everything I wanted to feel and worse. With him, I felt everything I wanted to feel and worse. And then more worse. In him, I thought I had everything. In her, I found danger.
“Instead of a diamond in my engagement ring, you should put a big coke rock.”
Yes, I would have traded diamonds for her. I stole her, because of her. I dug through skin and acceptance and denial for her, because of her. That is what you do when you are in love and I loved her and I loved him.
There came a time, and I left her.
There came a time, and he left me.
For a fucking minor.
Now, dismantled ideals of love and promises, inconclusive understandings of where we are and what we were, perpetuate the disbelief that all of that amounted to nothing.
That is, if there is no value in self-worth.