“It’s not you, it’s me.” You explained it so easily, so nonchalantly. You told me you didn’t think I’d take it the way I did and yet you were the one who did things that gave me the *wrong* idea. I spent my time and energy picking up your broken pieces and in turn, you broke me into pieces. I tried hard… I really did. But the fragments were so small that it made it difficult and just as when I am about to tape my shattered heart, you found ways to draw me in even deeper. Deeper, deeper I go. Losing air and drowning. Wanting to scream for help but not having any strength left to be able to. You came up with brilliant excuses that enabled you to crawl back into my life. You knew my weakness and you used it to your convenience and satisfaction. A master of manipulation. “It’s not you, it’s me.”
She was drawn to damaged souls and had a fiery desire to fix them. There were those who sincerely embraced her and then some who saw this as a way to take advantage and use her for their own selfish intentions. Little did she know that an unfortunate encounter with a deeply damaged soul would set off her downward spiral. She gave him bits and pieces of her and was reciprocated with broken promises and constant lies. Her belief that she could fix him was so immensely blinded that she risked the demise of friendships and even paid the cost of her own sanity. Soon she was left with nothing but an emptiness that engulfed her jovial spirit and the aura she emanated went from a full-spectrum of colors to black and white. The tears streamed endlessly from her eyes blurring her vision that she couldn’t see the hands that were reaching out to pull her out from the darkness. It made her contemplate life, death… her reasons for living. She was a fixer but now she needed fixing.