Part III · Exposure
Trauma Bond
I miss you. And I hate that I do.
I still check the driveway
like your headlights might return,
cutting through the night
like you used to cut through me—
with brilliance,
with fury,
with purpose.
You were never safe.
But you were never dull.
There was passion in your rage—
terrifying,
but holy in its focus.
It made me feel seen,
even if I bled for it.
I remember the weeks—
too few, too fragile—
when you were stable.
When your eyes held stillness
instead of storms.
When we laughed in the kitchen,
and your touch didn’t bruise—
just warmed.
There was a woman in you
I loved without armor.
Gentle. Whole.
The one who rubbed my back
when I collapsed
under the weight of trying.
The one who kissed our son’s forehead
like a hymn.
That version of you—
she was real.
Even if she never stayed.
But you didn’t stay.
You split yourself
into light and violence,
and I was the canvas
for both.
Now you’re gone.
And some days—
I’m relieved.
But other nights—
God—
I ache for you.
Not the cruelty,
but the closeness.
The chaos that wrapped around me
like a home I couldn’t leave,
and sometimes
didn’t want to.
I miss you.
The real you.
The imagined you.
The memory of who you could’ve been
if the sickness hadn’t won.
And I hate that.
I hate how honest it is.
How even freedom
sometimes feels like grief.