Its not that i don’t love you.
Its the sound i heard when i was thirteen and my dad slammed the front door so hard behind him and i swear to god it shook the whole house.
For the next three years i watched my mother break her teeth on wine glasses.
I think she stopped breathing everytime he left.
I think he took her heart with him when he walked out.
Only to return her heart bandaged and wrapped from a med school drop out, leaving her to pick up the messy pieces.
Her chest empty, just a shattered mess of cracked ribs and depression pills.
Its not that i don’t love you.
Its all the blood in the sink.
Its the night i spent 12 hours in the emergency room waiting to hear if I was going to be okay, after the boy I loved told me he didn’t love me anymore.
Its the crying and the fluorescent lights and white sneakers, pale faces and shaky breaths, and the blood.
So much blood.
Its not that i don’t love you.
Its the time that i had to stay up two days straight with my bestfriend while she cried and shreiked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex.
I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks.
I think when you love someone that it never really goes away.
Its not that i don’t love you.
Its the six weeks we had a subsitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldnt handle getting out of bed.
When she came back she was smiling.
But her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee that you could see something was broken inside.
Sometimes when things break you cant fix them.
Nothing ever goes back to how it was.
I got an A in english that year, i think her head was spinning to hard to read any essays.
Its not that i don’t love you, its that i do.
