I am angry. I try to deny it, but there really is no point. It would be so much easier to be angry at you, but you are who you are.
It would be like being angry at a zebra for having stripes.
No, I'm angry at myself for thinking - by force of will and ferocity of love - that I could somehow transform your stripes to spots. For refusing to acknowledge that, no, this zebra is striped; it was clearly there in black and white.
It's a problem.
I will forgive you long before I forgive myself. But I suppose that is the luxury of moving on. I don't have to rehash YOUR missteps, mistakes and misrepresentations. I can tuck them away in a box with the memories of you. (Those mementos - which by the way, are no longer silent witnesses. I washed the sweatshirt. I threw out the toothpaste. And the bottles of water were served at your going away party.) But mine... Mine I have to carry. They are in danger of becoming the lens I view any future through.
But I don't want a future distorted by the past. I have to let this go.
I'm sorry I couldn't recognize your striped-ness early on; I could have saved us a lot of trouble. But at least now I know stripes when I see them. And I have the wherewithal to hold out for spots.
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