I want to tell you how I felt when you sent that message. But I won’t.
I want to tell you about the real emotion I had. But I won’t.
I want to tell you never to contact me again. But I won’t.
I want to block you from ever being able to get in contact with me. But I won’t.
I want to write a thousand words about the damage and the hurt and the codependency. But I won’t.
You’re not welcome here, anymore. But I won’t shut the door, because you’re not important enough for me to buy into that kind of drama ever again.
This – us – whatever it was (more than a friendship, too little for a relationship) – was a mess.
I am not closing the door on you, but my therapy is. It’s slowly prying loose that death grip you held on my heart and my wallet. It’s disarming you, reducing you from the charming monster I used to love, to a simple man, broken by his own demons. Nothing more. Nothing less.
I’ve already written too much. You don’t have a front seat in my life, anymore.
I’m moving on. I’m setting you free, to do whatever you want to do. Go. So I can be free of you.
© Dave Luis 2015. All Rights Reserved.
Image by Alex Wigan at Unsplash