“Gracefully?”- By Tamara Lee
“One of the best things you can do is to part on good terms with someone from your past. People often make the mistake of leaving and treating them like they’re your enemies. Why? You once loved this person. You once gave your heart to this person and now you “hate” them?”
I saw this quote on Instagram today and I gotta tell ya: positive Tamara was like “Yea, totally. Let these people go with grace and know they weren’t meant for you. Let it be what it was for as long as it was and be thankful you had the time to build so many memories.”
The issue within me is that positive Tamara and Savage Tamara go head to head like Daffy ad Donald in a motherfucking piano battle.
What happened was this time, the savage in me won and I got angry enough to write this:
Mother. Fuck. That. Shit.
Self-preservation is the only way of life I know. When someone you let in can’t bothered to fucking stay? The do or die kicks in and the only way for you to heal is to focus on yourself. How you feel. How they hurt you. Who’s even hungry? I’ll be at the gym.
Now I’m not saying that “Fuck him/her, (s)he’s a piece of shit” is going to help you heal any more easily or in any more healthy of a way. What I am saying is that faking the funk like you’re boys is so fucking unrealistic. I have done it both ways and been on both sides and trust me when I say that I am the biggest twinkie you have ever met in your life. I got this rough around the edges, walls up, let no one in, zap them with frickin laser beams if they try to infiltrate thing down to a science but every once in a while the stars align and I meet someone so fucking beautiful that I beg them to break shit and climb walls. Okay so maybe one time. Whatever. Point is – do you know how hard it was to show you my cream filling? To trust that marshmallow creme, shortening, powdered sugar, and vanilla would be okay in your hands? Okay this analogy is getting weird. But if I let down the walls and you shit on me; I go right to mental funerals. The flowers have been ordered, the caskets picked out and the reverend has absolutely nothing nice to say about your bullshit. It’s me. I am the reverend.
“When you hold hatred in your heart, you’re the only one affected by it. So let go of your negative chords, and just end things in the best way, wishing the best for people.”
What the fuck did you just say to me?
That would be easy to do if I were the one ending it. I would expect him to wish me the best and send me on my way with a kiss on the forehead and a pat on the ass. We’ll go for dinner one day when the sting is gone and you can tell me about your new girl and how you compare her to me. I’ll laugh. It’ll be swell. I cannot do any of this as I lay on the floor of my shower dying because I let you in and I failed to make you love me. Don’t you understand? The only option is to hate you. I wish you death and misery until you get there. I hope every girl you meet for the rest of your life searches through the deep corners of your closet and the lint in your pockets for the remnants of me that haunt you. I hope you smell my perfume and think of your nose in my neck. I hope one day you get a sting in your gut because you’ll hear my laugh in a crowded restaurant with your wife and children. I wish for your head to be on a swivel for the rest of your life, because I have no ability to put it on a spike.
I apologize in advance, I never wanted it to come to this.