One hundred days since I started writing.
How much has changed in one hundred days?
One hundred days ago,
I was working in a job that made me miserable,
I was in a relationship that wasn’t making me happy and I didn’t know what to do about it,
I was relatively healthy –
or at least I didn’t know how sick I was.
Now I am in a new job,
and I am struggling but I leave each day happy.
I left that relationship and discovered my propensity for cruelty
and my complete lack of empathy.
I started chemotherapy and had an ovary removed
and I have come to terms with the fact
that nothing will go back to how it was
and that’s okay.
One hundred days ago,
I decided to stop screaming into the void
and start whispering into a crowded room.
I learned to be my own summer.
I admit I did not handle
the situation very well.
If I could go back in time,
there is so much I would change,
so much I would do differently.
I cannot go into the past.
I have made my bed
and now I am lying in it.
I never wanted to be the bad guy.
It was not my intention to
hurt you like I did.
if you want to make me the villain,
I will wear my highest heels,
my reddest lipstick,
my angriest expression
and I will be the worst.
Maybe I am a terrible person
Maybe I have spent so long
avoiding my problems
that I failed to realise
that I am the problem
and now I have too many problems
I never thought I was selfish
I didn’t care enough
how selfish I was being.
I have hurt so many people
through caring about my own interests
and completely disregarding theirs.
I know I have so much I need to explain
but I cannot find the motivation
to work out the words needed.
Maybe what I’ve heard is right,
maybe I am a bad person,
maybe I would be better off alone.
Maybe it’s because I learned
that love came with broken bones
and I never allowed anyone
to teach me any different
so how can I love like you want?
Maybe I am just making excuses.
Maybe I could try a little harder.
Maybe I don’t want to.
You must think I am stupid
to believe you could heal the rift so easily.
I gave you everything.
I tore myself apart for you –
for you to give nothing in return.
At times, I wished I was more
so you wouldn’t ignore me.
At times, I wished you were mean
because even cruelty felt better than silence.
You say you know you did wrong
and it took me leaving to see that
but I have heard your story
too many times
to keep believing it.
A leopard may change its spots
but it will still turn and rip your throat out given the chance.
A mushroom may grow
but it will still be poisonous.
You must think so little of me.
– for those who did too little, too late