It's not me, it's you

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I couldn’t fathom calling you pathetic. How hurtful would that be? How deeply would it cut? I’ve never been in a place where I wanted to cut you that deeply.

Pathetic, maybe I am. When you roll the word around in your mouth it starts to lose its sharp edge, that same edge it sliced me with, and becomes dull. It’s not the word so much that offends me, it was how it came to be in my mouth, rolling around like it is. You fired it at me.

You know me too well to pretend the word would slide off me. Which is the worst part, you knew that word would unravel me, you wanted it to. You’re aware of the thin tethers that hold me to the world, yet you launched an axe at them just the same.

I know what you tried to do, to hurt me, to ease your hurt by throwing axes at my tethers. It worked beautifully. I was paralyzed by the pain it caused. That was what you wanted though, right? To know I can feel hurt and you can cause it? Well done; mission accomplished; a celebratory drink is in order.

Then, that’s a scary word isn’t it? What happens then, after? You’ve taken your vicious words off leash and let them attack—then what? What did you want? To know we’re both hurt perhaps. You couldn’t have expected to reunite after such an assault. No taking that back. Here’s the thing, you don’t know what happens for me.

You spit your awfulness at me, and I said nothing, I gave nothing. I am a fortress you can no longer penetrate. What you did hurt, deeply, and you will never know of it. Your only success was solidifying my fortress and burning away what remaining doubt I had about leaving you outside. My doubt follows me like a shadow, always present, at times the light makes it small. In the darkness of being alone it consumes me. You scorched it from me. I’ve never been able to do it before. Thank you.
—Fortress

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