Shipwrecked

Growing up, my mother always said, “God doesn’t like ugly.”
Even in times like these, where God seems so far away, I can’t help but believe those words.
When was it that your ugly first slipped out?
Did you try and stop it or did you just let it pour out of you like a well-thought-out lie?
Out of all people, I never thought you’d be the one to hurt me.
Yet here I am, praying to a God I’m not even sure is listening.
If he can hear me, my cries are piercing his ears like nails on a chalkboard.
My pleas are crawling on his skin like maggots on decaying flesh.
My fears are swimming around in his stomach, just searching for a reason not to drown.
I’m drowning.
I used to think of you as the buoy that helped me stay afloat when in reality you were the anchor tied around my heart trying to bring me down to your level.
You shipwrecked our love and even as the water fills my lungs, I still grasp for gratitude, choking on the lies you convinced even yourself were true.
Even underwater all I see is the possibility of the God that I so desperately want to believe in.
I’m grieving.
I’m grieving the loss of trust.
I’m grieving the loss of us.
I’m grieving the loss of a touch that once felt so safe.
I don’t want to hear the word sorry slip from your lips.
Apologies after the fact mean nothing.
The damage is done.
You saw me crumble in your lap and still chose to act on your childlike impulses.
I keep wondering when you let your ugly out or if it was there all along and I was just blinded by the type of kindness I had never received from a man before. Correction. Boy.
Growing up, my mother always said, “God doesn’t like ugly”.
It’s those words that reassure me that he’ll deal with you in whatever way he seems fit.
Or maybe he already has. I mean, you just lost the most beautiful spirited woman that you will ever have.