*This piece contains references to emotional abuse, physical violence, suicidal threats, and coercion. Reader discretion is strongly advised.

July 20th, 2019

This is the fourth time this week they’ve come.

They’re worried about us —

they don’t think we’re making the right choice.

We need to stop telling them we fight.

I keep saying it’s probably nerves.

The wedding is only a few days away.

They’re my best friends.

They just want what’s best for us.

Or me, I should say.

They never really liked you.

That always made me sad.

But you really shouldn’t hit me when you’re mad.

Mace took me aside and told me to stop —

not to marry you.

He said I’m making a big mistake.

But I feel trapped.

I thought I could help you.

I thought I could fix you.

I don’t know if I can.

You keep telling me to change —

that I’m the problem.

I know I’m a problem,

but not the problem.

You told me I’m a piece of shit.

Worthless.

I’m the fucking worst.

It’s just the nerves.

It’s gotta be the nerves.

Everyone is mad.

They can’t take it —

the constant fighting,

the abuse.

But you say you love me,

so it’s not abuse.

Right?

They told me I needed to leave.

Then they left.

You spiraled.

You said you took all the pills.

Said you were gone.

Locked yourself in the bathroom.

I had to threaten to call the cops.

You cried and cried, blamed me —

like your mental health was my fault.

Like I was the reason you couldn’t live.

A classic cry for attention.

You didn’t take any.

And then you gave me an ultimatum:

You or them.

And I chose wrong.

Read the Next Poem

2019: The Year I Proposed