Sabotage

I fell down the rabbit hole. The social media spiral of snapshots that will haunt me through the night as I fall further and further into the black hole of insecurity. A safe space is suddenly filled with monsters lurking in the shadows of past likes and uploads, convincing myself that these memories are more real than the reality in front of me. He tells me he loves me, but the way he looked at her is forever engraved for the world to see. How can he be mine when he just looked at her like that?

It isn’t that I don’t believe him. It isn’t that I don’t trust him. I believe his affections and his emotion and his intentions and his words to and toward me are true. But what if his heart hasn’t caught up to his head? What if there wasn’t enough time to heal the old before he let in the new?

As I scroll and I stop and I scroll and I stop, I can’t help but think there’s this whole part of his life that is hers. That will always be hers. And his. And theirs. A page torn from our story so ours is disheveled and displaced trying to hide that there is anything missing.

He lives for the future, while I trip over the past, trying to catch my breath to make it to the present. Stumbling, I pull him backwards with my questions, a tug-of-war I won’t win. I slip, falling further and further behind.

The dates turn into a time machine, but they aren’t going back far enough. My eyes sting as tears of frustration threaten to expose my insanity. Is he over her? Is he ready? Is it possible? Am I setting myself up for heartbreak? Am I already broken? Or am I just sabotaging myself?

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