As It Comes….I Will Remain … Schanntel

As the liquor runs through my veins and the dizziness sets in, hidden truths begin to surface. Sitting in the midday blues, I think of the pain I caused you. I’m not perfect—never have been—and maybe one day I will be. With every slap, I wanted you to feel the pain you caused me. With every yell, I wanted you to hear it. But it never seemed to phase you. I still needed you, and you knew it. You craved my pain; you devoured my anger. Under your skin, I needed your kiss—I wanted your kiss. But I still fought those feelings, believing you deserved my wrath.

Now, I sit in this yellow chair by the window in our apartment, typing these words in desperation, hoping you’ll somehow see my pain, my hurt, my loneliness.

Maybe you’ll never read this.
Maybe you’ve already forgotten me.
But I write these words because I don’t know what else to do with the ache.
I’m sorry—for the hurt, for the shouting, for the way I loved you through anger instead of gentleness.
You didn’t deserve all of it.
Maybe some, but not all.
And I didn’t know how to be anything but broken.

I still reach for you in the silence,
still sit in this chair hoping the wind might carry my sorrow to you.
Not to ask for anything—
not your forgiveness, not your return—
just that you might, for a moment, understand.

I loved you.
And I’m sorry that it hurt so much to be loved by me.