I Survived You

I was naive when I fell in love with you,
soft-handed, still believing love meant safety.

I left my home. I quit my job.
I stepped into your life hoping there was room for me.

But in that moment, my name stopped sounding like mine.

My identity splintered and faded,
quiet at first, then all at once.

I had more hallucinations than ever,
no friends,
and anger that lived just under my skin.

I was a dog backed into a corner,
shaking, trying to trust the hand in front of me,
and instead of letting me learn your scent,
you put me outside.

I crossed state lines with nothing but what was left of me,
ended up in a spare room
trying to piece together a person I barely recognized.

I couldn’t find work.
My body started failing me.
My habits turned against me.

And then you left.

During the worst time of my adult life,
you chose absence.

You taught me that attachment can vanish overnight,
that love can close its door without looking back.

You made it clear there was no place for me in your life.

So I gathered what remained with shaking hands
and no one to witness it.

Alone.

Now look at me.

I have rebuilt myself with bricks you will never touch.

I live in a home you will never see,
wear a perfume you will never smell,
speak prayers you will never hear.

When you met me, I was whole.

Loving you broke me open,
took my life apart piece by piece,
and left me in the wreckage
to study my own reflection.

But I am still here,
repairing, rebuilding, becoming in spite of you.

I do the things you were too afraid to try.
I live the life you were not ready to stand beside.

You may have torn me down,
but I took every blade you left in me
and welded it into armor.

Isaiah 61:3-4