We broke it off in the same conversation that you told me that you loved me for the first time.

I wonder if you thought love would make a difference, would cause me to change my mind.

I still wonder why you said it, when we were already at an end.

Is that what closure feels like? Leaving none of your words left unsaid?

We had already decided that our futures couldn’t align.

You wanted a house, a wife, two kids, and a dog.

I wanted myself, a good book, and a job.

No nuclear family, no calling myself mom.

You apologized for not taking me seriously every time the words slipped out my mouth.

You tried to convince yourself that you could be happy without.

I told you no, kids are no compromise.

I won’t change for you, so you can’t change for what’s mine.

You’ll find a girl and a white picket fence, a girl who wants kids, who can give you a home.

I’ll stand my ground, find a boy who’s okay being alone.

Because love isn’t always enough to make having children okay.

I don’t want to lose you

don't want to leave you

don’t want to keep leading you on

but I spilled the ashes

I lost the key

I broke it off

burned the “and” from between “you and me”

I told you no when our futures didn’t align

said it again when you told me that you'd change your mind

I can’t pretend that we could have been fine

I’d carry guilt of knowing you changed for me

and maybe you’d have me, but you‘d be unhappy

so we walk this line

we call ourselves friends

we never address it because we know how it ends

but lost in the background

I think we both scream

I wish you could love me

I’d always liked her stubbornness, but I think I liked it a little less when she managed to drag a friendship out of the ashes of our short lived romance. She talked a big talk about mutual friends and not wanting me to change for her, but she never stopped talking. And I never stopped listening. Two years later, I was still stuck in her orbit. I couldn’t forgive myself if I didn’t try again. I don’t think I would have forgiven her if she had said yes. I needed the closure, the reminder of why the answer needed to be no. I dropped a love letter on the table as I left, apologies still on my lips. She had watched me walk in knowing what I was going to say, knew her answer would be no. She let me say it anyway, too nice to send me away, too desperate to keep our friendship. I knew she wouldn’t take the risk to try again, would give me the rejection I wanted. But it still hurt to walk out the door.

Following a summer of going to bed after the fireflies, the blare of my alarm startles me. Yet, I fall easily into the memory of routine. Throw on the clothes laid out the night before, brush my teeth, throw a granola bar into the backpack and trudge down the street to the bus stop. I kick rocks into the grate, waiting for the distant splash before I kick another. The bus screeches to a stop. I slip into a seat halfway back, resting my forehead onto the cool glass window, bumping alongside the potholes in the road. One more year.

When you said you were diagnosed

it was through a text, misspelled, bad grammar and no punctuation

I called you on my lunch break at work

closing the door as I paced in my office

you cried on the phone

overwhelmed and unsure

it was good news

it made sense

a simple label that explained years of obstacles

but for you the label was scary, unexpected

falling into it because your doctor cared enough to keep asking questions

and you cared enough to share

The alarm sounds at seven. You stretch in bed three times, reaching to the bottom of your toes. Flip the blankets off, walk 27 steps to the bathroom. Two minutes to brush your teeth, four minutes on your hair. 29 steps and five minutes into the closet to change your clothes. 46 steps into the kitchen. Eight minutes for breakfast. You eat half a grapefruit and a slice of toast. Out the door for work immediately after. It’s all routine, almost religion in your steadfast consistency to this schedule. Alarm. Stretch. Bathroom. Clothes. Breakfast. Work. Repeat. Again. Again. Again. Unchanging.

you ask for my forgiveness

as if it’s yours to take

to pull and drag out from my bones

to peel from underneath my skin

but my forgiveness is a privilege

a choice that’s all my own

you don’t get to take it

asking from your imaginary throne

there may come a time I give it

willingly and free

but right now my forgiveness

is not yet yours to have

I keep it still and silent

sitting underneath my tongue

the words will stay there waiting

until their time has come

I’m smarter, more successful

Also sadder, more stressful

suffocating

Pit fever burning

waiting and yearning

Stomach dropped nerves

no straight lines

it‘s all curves

taking me at breakneck speed

I should be on top of the world

but I’m chasms deep

high pressure

high stakes

low faith

another mistake

time ticking to the dead line

my brain screaming it’s not fine

guilt sits, Atlas shrugged

anger burns, anxiety runs

Do you remember the nights we would spend, sitting in the living room, hallmark movies on TV, talking about life and everything in between? I miss the ability to be that carefree. Do you remember laughing at the things my sisters and I did as children? You would brush off your giggles, saying that I’d understand when I was older, when I had my own children.

But I’m older now, and I don‘t think I’ll ever understand.

Are you disappointed in me?

I never wanted to be a mother. But now I’m stuck on the other side of the gap, and I don’t know how to talk to you anymore. My life is so much different than yours was.

Am I living up to your expectation?

You say you are proud of me, and I know you are, but I can’t help but wonder if you wish for more.

As a child, you were my sun. My thoughts and plans and ideas all revolved around your opinion, your approval. I think part of me is still stuck in that orbit. You were my hero, my super-mom, and I am just here- following in none of your footsteps. What am I supposed to do?

I love you.