Paxton

White tipped wings. No one taught him how to fly. He broke his wing trying on his own. No kindly stranger saw the poor bird and patched his wing up. They all said "poor thing, this one won't make it" and kept walking. So he patched himself up, taking shelter in the hollows of trees and under dumpster lids. But the squirrels and raccoons didn't take kindly to the unfamiliar bird in their home. He wandered streets with the warm sun bright in the sky or the stars overhead and it was all for nought. The stars don't glitter when your wing is broken and there's feces in your feathers. Every time he thought he had found a home, he was bit and scratched and hit. He learned to trust nobody and nothing. Around every corner lurks something that would hurt him. And as time went on, his wing slowly healed. One day, he stretched his wing and it didn't shudder or twitch. He thought to himself "if I try to fly and I fall, who will catch me?" Then he thought "if I fall, maybe this hell will end" and with a shaky breath, he jumped off a bridge. And the air caught his wings. And he soared. He flew with other birds. He nested with them. Migrated with them. They called him Mangle. Even fresh and clean, he could still feel feces in his feathers. He knew that if he fell, nobody would catch him.

They tell me to write happy things. They tell me to write about flowers and sunshine and gratitude as if there weren't grenades exploding in my head. Rapid fire memories of screams for help drown out the feeling of grass under my fingertips. Living halfway between bombshells and shelter, constantly trying to bridge the gap with slats of would've could've should'ves as if I could have changed the actions of other people by being good enough. My mind a broken CD, forever skipping back over the same line, wishing I could've stopped them. And maybe that if I do everything just right, it won't happen again. If I am just good enough, I won't be treated that way again. Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. The track keeps skipping. Or maybe I'm just falling, about to crash into the rocks, unable to stop gravity from pulling me down. I feel the grass under my fingertips, drowned out by memories of screams for help.

Magic isn't real. Miracles don't happen. Wishes don't come true. So when you tell me you're sorry and you see fear dripping from my eyes, don't mistake that for forgiveness. You plucked on my heartstrings until they snapped off one by one, turning the tuning knobs tighter and tighter when you never needed to. If God existed, maybe when you said sorry you would've really meant it. Maybe it could've made a difference. But as I look into your eyes, I can see a mocking smirk hiding just around the corner waiting for me to tell you that what you did was okay. Waiting for your mark to miss the manipulation and subtext you string into every sentence you speak. Love might be real, but yours never was. And that might be the most terrifying part.

Ripped in half. One half longs for you. One half desperate to forget you. But every part of me still loves you. I wish I could hate you. You were never the problem. I wish I could've seen that sooner. Every day I love you more, if that's even possible. We're just friends. Your selflessness and kindness will never cease to astound me. You deserve better than me. I'm glad you have somebody better than me now. I'm glad you're doing better now. I just wish you could be happy with me. You deserve all the happiness in the world.

242 days since my puzzle was shattered, pieces scattered to every corner of the city we explored together. 8 months I've been picking up the pieces, trying to piece my puzzle back together. You have the last piece. I am incomplete without you. A rift torn in my soul. The puzzle can still be beautiful, but never complete without you. I could live a thousand lives and write a thousand poems, but you are one in a million. I'll never find another you. I keep searching for puzzle pieces, trying new ones that kind of fit the hole, but they could never replace you. I may be an atheist but I'll pray to any god that might bring you back to me.

We spent a lifetime writing our story together. And just as we began to write the next chapter, you wadded me up and threw me away. I sat there in the cold lonely waste basket waiting for the day you came back. Waiting for the day you picked up the pen for me again. But instead, when you sat at the desk, you pulled out a fresh piece of paper and began writing a new story. I thought maybe you just forgot about me, so I yelled and waved my arms from down below. When you finally looked at me, you smiled, then you went back to writing the new story with the new page. You didn't forget me. You just don't want me. I'm not exciting and fun for you anymore. You got tired of writing the difficult dialogue and bored of the slow character arc. You threw me away. I won't wait for you to come back anymore. I'm leaving the waste basket. When you get bored of your new page and come looking for me, I won't be there. I deserve better than to be put on hold indefinitely. My story deserves to be written.

I hold your photographs in my hands, sitting by the lake again. I have to let you go. I have to let go now. One by one I drop our photos into the murky waters and watch them float away slowly. I have to stop romanticizing what was and fantasizing what could've been. I have to stop. Loving you is killing me. I have to move on. I'll scatter the memories of us and pray to the gods that I can survive another year without you. I promised I would love you forever. I have to break that promise before it destroys me. I can't love you anymore. I'm sorry.