I tried to be your friend. I tried to go back to a time when I only saw the good in you. I made excuses for your behavior. I made apologies for your mistakes. I believed you when you lied. I kept quiet while you screamed. I agreed with all you said. We talked every day of your problems, but never of mine. I walked on eggshells around you. You destroyed me. And when I asked you to just go ahead and hit me (because at least that kind of hurt heals), you said you weren't that kind of guy. No. You are the kind of guy that will let me live with what you did the rest of my life. Knowing no one can see the scars, so no one would believe it.
Everyone thinks you're great. Generous to a fault. Life of the party. And I suppose to those who don't try to get closer and can take you or leave you...
Broken Hearts
I don’t hate you.
But there’s some stuff you need to know.
The first time I heard your name was over wine and calamari at a little bar in New York City. I was on a first date with the man who would become my son’s father — your ex-boyfriend at the time — and we were going through all those first date details: Exes, favorite food; career goals. You never really came up after that.
He took me on thoughtful dates. One I will always remember was a trip to the famous Books of Wonder in New York City. We milled around rows of children’s books, sat with our backs against the wall; had pie and coffee in the cafe.
It was a whirlwind. He invited me to his work holiday party. We rode the subway to the Upper East Side, mingled with his coworkers at the intimate gathering — and drank a lot...
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