I will never be left here again.

A fistful of darkness, a pocketful of night, I am fumbling through my jacket hoping to pull out light.

Take the empty, take the silence stained sorrow, hold it close enough to turn it into vows, into the promise that I will never be left here again.

Tyler Knott Gregson

I promise this to myself every time. Every time, and still … I end up here, by myself, left again.

You may call this my pity-party but you’re mistaken. This is not a party I enjoy attending, I didn’t send out an invite, nor did I RSVP.

I am allowing myself to feel the hurt, raw and relentless as it may be, because I know the only way to get to the other side of pain is through the pain. I don’t run from it like you do. I’ve never had the tendency to run from an argument or a difficult discussion.

Through the years I learned that running away is your method of dealing with uncomfortable situations, when things get so heated that you can feel the flames licking at your feet. It’s scary, isn’t it? I can understand your need to escape. What I don’t understand is how you can take the hose with you when you clearly see me in your rearview mirror, ablaze.

Loving someone means letting them be free. You feel the need to leave – go ahead. I can’t stop you; I know this, I’ve tried. But you know of my struggle with overcoming a fear left over from my childhood; the fear of you not returning. I know all too well what it’s like when a person you trust heads out the door one morning just to never walk in through that door again. And no, I’m not talking about a tragic accident that prevented them from returning. I’m talking about someone’s deliberate choice to walk out on someone they love without so much as a heads up, a high five, a see you later, alligator.

You know I still struggle with this, so after you’re done cornering me, screaming at me, your face an inch away from mine so that your spittle lands heavy on my skin, after you’re done getting dressed and calling me every vile insult in the book, go ahead and leave.

But throw me an anchor, at least? You can see I’m about to drown in the agony of not being able to stop this nightmare from happening again. All it takes is for you to throw me an anchor, no further involvement necessary. I can hold on to it myself.

Hold on to it myself … Hold on to it. But anchors sink.

You were my anchor all along.

“You don’t drown by falling in the water; you drown by staying there.” – Edwin Louis Cole

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