90 Days

I threw your shit out last night.

I’d been meaning to for weeks, if I’m being honest.
“I’m just not ready yet,” I’d placated myself thus far.

The day I moved into my house I’d stashed your remnants in the back corner of the storage closet. Behind all my candles and batteries and camping stuff. Then for 90-days, I looked directly at it every time I walked into that room. Each time, I’d think of that childlike grin you gave me any time I did something thoughtful for you.

What is it about Change that strikes the match of nostalgia?
The week I moved in was the loneliest I’d ever felt in my life.

“You gotta keep the TV on. Or put on a podcast,” Max suggested in the darkness of my new house. It was late in California; it must have been close to 5:00am in North Carolina, “You got used to having people around you all the time… of course it’s going to be tough to fall asleep now.”

I wanted so badly to tell you that I “made it”.
I did it.
I didn’t just survive the worst time in my life, I used my anger to catapult myself into the life I’d always dreamed about.

Why did I even care what you thought?

You wouldn’t acknowledge my achievements.
You’d make it about you. You’d pick a fight. You’d track me down.
I’d circle back and begin again the same tragic cycle that I’d just barely escaped alive.

I feel pity for you and that blind eye you turn to the wreckage you’ve labeled “love”.
The blatant disregard of human life around you. The absolute refusal to self-reflect, self-evaluate, or take accountability for the way you’ve treated the people you claim to love.

If I’m being honest, I would have been more surprised if you hadn’t tried to contact me after your all expenses paid vacation was up.

“I know you were constantly thinking about killing yourself this year but look at my chip!”

“Anything else need to go out?” He asked as he pulled the trash bin from under my counter.
I was at the dining room table sketching designs for our jack-o’-lanterns.
“Actually yes,” I said without looking up.
I stepped over the pumpkins on the dining room floor and opened the door to the storage closet. I plucked your your skeleton off the shelf by two fingers and dropped it on top of the wet grounds from our coffee.
“Thanks,” I leaned in for a kiss.