We all know what a toxic relationship looks like from the outside. One partner getting dragged along for the ride. Someone manipulating, deceiving, doing something or other that ends in an ing and sounds like Jesus just give it a rest.
One of the people are exhausted. Hell, maybe they both are. But here they go neck and neck on the hamster wheel of misguided intentions. Feeding off the infinite energy of advantage and victim swirled into a old shoe flavored ice cream cone.
But I like ice cream. Okay I fucking love ice cream. It makes a piece of me just blissfully unaware. So blissful that I override the threat of diabetes, sugar headaches, dairy bellyaches and the ultimate threat a fatter ass.
Maybe you’re lucky. Maybe there comes a point when some reality of your toxic sludge that you’ve mislabeled as love slaps you in the face. A big egregious, damn I didn’t see this coming, slap. And it stings. And you question what you are going to lose when you decide to finally gather your emotional baggage and get the fuck off the hamster wheel.
You can only hope that it’s like pulling off a bandaid and not like walking around with a gaping hole that could have used at least a few stitches long ago.
I’ll wear that scar. Maybe one day I’ll tell people about it like the two big patches on my elbows. This one time I totally ate it on a scooter as a kid, my whole lower half of my arms were scrapped off. I had to wear long sleeves that whole summer. It was gnarly dude.
I’ll try and not wear you on my sleeve. I’ll try to tuck you in a pocket or a drawer. Maybe a photo album so that I can pull you out and say look how beautiful she was. But we both know that every molecular structure of your face will shine back at me every time I pass a mirror, search for my reflection in a puddle and catch a glimpse of my hands, but they never felt like mine anyway.