There’s Nothing Left Here For You

You contacted me the other day. I saw your name appear right in the center of my phone screen and I took a deep breath in.

You were drunk. I wasn’t surprised. It was a long message, telling me that my perception of you is wrong. That you actually do care. That you only treated me the way you did because I was different than other girls. Because I was special.

You were looking for me to tell you it was okay. You wanted my understanding.

You didn’t just want it. You expected it. Just like last time. And the time before that.

But there’s nothing left inside of me for you. If you cut a small hole somewhere between my ribs and peeked inside you’d see an empty chamber. You’d see right through me to a xylophone of vertebrae.

I’ve given you everything that used to fill the now-empty chamber…my dedication, my affection, my compassion. I’ve given you my forgiveness, again and again, and my honesty. And you took it all. So now there’s nothing left.

Except for one thing.

Anger.

It’s the only thing you haven’t taken from me, because I was afraid to give it. I was afraid of hurting your fragile feelings — that’s the irony, isn’t it? You tore me apart time and time again, yet you’re the one who’s fragile.

I was afraid of making you feel the way you’ve made me feel. Worthless, ugly, unwanted, or even worse…insignificant. Invisible.

You push your way back into my life every few months. Sometimes it’s longer and I wonder whether I’ve finally left your mind for good.

But you always come back.

In search of sympathy. Clawing at any last shred of confidence or dignity left inside me.

But it’s not here. I don’t have it. Because you’ve taken every last drop.

There’s nothing left here for you.