on diluted memories-

she read that one day all her past darkness would equal another's hope. two days ago, she sat across from a friend-- tears flowing down, a heart broken beyond seeming repair.

now, now is that moment, she thought.

words came easier than the memory of them. painstakingly, she retold her experience as she had to herself months without end, until the story became blurred-- the memories, diluted.

"i don't know how it happens, but one day you wake up and realize how much better you deserved. no more disillusionment, the rose-colored glasses are reduced to what they are, dried petals on a wilted stem. when you do finally realize how much better you deserve, the memories, they still exist;  i don't know if they'll ever go away, but i can promise you this, they begin to sting less."

across that couch, she wiped the tears from her eyes and spoke with conviction, 

"you know why it hurts so much? my dad told me it's because you give a part you'll never get back. you've opened your heart, shared parts of yourself that cannot be returned."

in that moment, as her past darkness equaled hope for another broken heart, she hated not her own experience so much. what she hated more than anything was the reality of how many hearts have and continue to shatter under the weight of broken promises. 

she hated how people used each other. she hated the tears streaming down the cheeks of the girl sitting across the table. she wanted for all the sorrow and heartache in the world to drown in those tears. in the tears of every girl and every boy who had been used up by another human being-- used for the purpose of momentary pleasure. 

go back where you come from darkness, destroy your own self.