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You know what’s worse than that night, catching you in bed with an unfamiliar girl? What’s worse than the fact that it was on our bed, that your inhibitated mind had no difficulty tossing away guilt and shame? What’s worse than the events after, of watching you beg and plead, of the two week break that made me want to be the one who begged and pleaded, of the searing pain I felt when I ultimately decided to give you a second chance and when your touches began leaving soot and scars?

It was moments like those, when I looked at you tying your hair back on a free afternoon, having just slept in on the new mattress you bought because no matter how soft, how big, how clean you replace it with, the image of you unfaithful would forever be seared and stained in my mind. Everyday moments like those, of mindless conversations, of lulling silences over the faint buzz of the open television. When I watched your back move around in the kitchen, the clinking noise of appliances bringing up that one night, of the numerous plates and cups I had broken and tossed at you. It had been two years, fifty-four days, sixteen hours, and counting. The pain was no longer a gaping wound but a stitched scar fixed by myself. Poorly threaded, having not known I would have had to experience what I did with you and leaving my unprepared self with my bleeding heart.

Simple, unfiltered moments