Discarded

"You're hurting me," I whisper, afraid that a louder voice might turn the truth to reality, my words could pierce your ego, turning you cold, uncaring. Scared of the truth. Scared that if I say it, I have to confront it— and I don’t want to just yet, clinging to hope that maybe it’s not true. "I've failed you again," you say, and suddenly the focus shifts, now it’s on you. I breathe a sigh of relief, solace washing over me; I don’t have to face myself, at least not right now. How can I call out the part of me that remains indifferent to my own pain? And how does one begin to confront the shadows that linger inside? But this isn’t about me, I remember. It’s about you. I shake my head, pull myself back to the present. "You haven’t failed me, love, don’t say that," I reassure you, "You're learning to love me, and until you do, there will be bumps. I will stumble as well, and I hope you can find some grace for me too— we're only human after all." While my words carry truth, they miss the deeper truth that lingers in my heart. I’m running from the inevitable, fleeing the reality that stands before me, bold and unrelenting. The simple truth is clear: you did not fail me; I have failed myself, once more. Trapped within my own cycle; one that I swore I had broken. "I'll try again tomorrow," I promise myself softly, holding onto the hope that maybe one day I’ll gather the courage to choose me, to embrace my own pain. Then I remember, this isn’t about me anymore— I need to make it about you. Because I’m not ready to face myself, to confront the echoes that linger in silence, the truths about myself I’ve buried deep in the corners of my heart. "I love you," I say, the words trembling on my lips, the only truth I can summon, braving the silence of uncertainty, a gentle declaration that holds the weight of all I cannot say.