Broken Bottle Love

Chapter 1

by: Marfabu
I met a boy whose heart is composed from glass shards of the whiskey bottles he breaks when he’s angry. His soul is cigarette ash, careless in the wind when it blows just right to take him farther away from me than I could ever have anticipated.

This boy is made of fragility and angry words that could cut you deeper than he’d ever intend. He is made of bright ideas of better tomorrows that he does not always want to see through, and there is something so rough in him that sometimes I cannot bring myself to believe that he is as fragile as he seems when his skin is made of sandpaper that rubs me the wrong way every time we touch.

And every time we kiss I am reminded of the fact that he has had others before me, people of higher caliber than I could ever fathom. And every time he looks at me I am reminded that he thinks that I am made of poetry when all I am is words, words that he assures me he could turn into poetry.

He promises me that I am the universe placed in one girl and he assures me that I am more than these words of insecurity that I catch myself thinking. But I am reminded that if I am catching something, someone has to have thrown it.

And I cannot fathom the fact that he thinks he knows what he’s saying when he tells me that he loves me when he is seventeen and tells me that love is the girl who sat next to him in Math yesterday and told him that it would be a good idea to stop taking his ADHD meds. I cannot understand how he can associate something as fragile as love with me when all he’s looking for is companionship and an outlet for the whiskey-fueled rage that he bottles up inside of him.

So I drop him and I tell him that I can’t bear to be with him anymore when all I am to him is a promise that he can’t keep his hold on; one that he keeps dropping like the bottles of whiskey and unlabeled vodka that, months ago, I could mistake for water. And I tell myself that I would be more content without him and I promise myself that I could find someone better than him easier than I even know, but he keeps me next to him with promises that he can change himself.

And he tells me that he loves me and I believe it for a moment that lasts days until I’m finding myself high off of the endorphin rush he gives me when his hand brushes up against mine. He tells me that I am someone special to him and for more than just a moment I can find myself believing him.

That’s when I fall, and I am captured.

Because I know that he could never give me what he promises me and that there will never be anything but glass shards of whiskey in his heart and sandpaper in his skin. But sandpaper has a smoother side to it, one that you can hold onto, and when he turns the right way I can find myself falling into his touch as he whispers to me that I am such things as perfect or wonderful and I drop into an embrace that feels loving when he doesn’t even know what love is.

And I remind myself that he could never love me in a way that could ever be deemed true because he cannot even begin to fathom what love actually is. This thought leaves me feeling empty and vacant because I want to believe that I am lovable to someone other than him but I feel like I never will be. I could never be more than usable and replaceable and deceivable and I could never be more to him than someone that is easy to manipulate. And that is the thought that breaks me and leaves me lying awake at night.

But I am more than broken-bottle love and I am more than sandpaper touches and I am more than his cigarette ash soul that stains my teeth when we kiss. I am more than that, and it’s time that I start realizing that.

So I left him, and I was free.

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