But I Swear It’s Different This Time


“But it’s different this time.”

Those words. Those words are the truth and the lie and everything in between. Because it is different. I’m a different person. You’re a different person. The impressions we’ve made on each other have molded and formed us into new beings. The scars and the bruises we’ve acquired since we last spoke have changed us, jaded us, maybe even healed us.

It is different.

But then it’s the same.

It’s the same pattern we fall into. We fall apart, we spontaneously combust, words are exchanged like daggers. We hurt each other and walk away wounded, finding healing in anything but the other. And then once the bleeding has stopped, once the cuts have scabbed over, we fall back together, swearing that this time we won’t get hurt. Maybe because we’ve already suffered the brunt of it. Picking a scab doesn’t hurt as much as the first incision. Maybe because we’ve just grown numb to it. We are our own novacane.

But even though it’s different, we are different, I can’t seem to shake it.

I don’t cry. I don’t ask you for answers. I’ve learned the hard way that those things never get me what I want. Tears run dry, questions are left unanswered, and I am always disappointed. So I’ve learned not to believe in you. I’ve learned not to think you’ll come around. I’ve learned to watch you walk away and to be okay if you never come back. I’ve learned to pretend that it doesn’t hurt, to walk with my head high. I’ve learned to dance around you at social gatherings, to practice social media courtesy. I’ve all but become an expert at this twisted symphony we play.
And so here we are again

here I am again.

Sometimes I forget that there is no we.

You’re there, and I’m here.

I don’t have answers.

I don’t have tears.

I am just numb.

I am just numb.