Patterns

“You can’t resist your patterns”
All my “patterns” led me to your door. Remember me?
The greatest teacher you will ever know.

My patterns were prologue. My patterns were practice.
My patterns put me in the path of the one that would tighten his grip on me so hard that I learned to be innovative and fight for the sanctity of my soul

I fought for the right to autonomy.
I fought for my space and boundaries.
I fought for sovereignty.

My resistance to your chokehold was the result of lifetimes of oppression. So when you tell me that I can’t resist my patterns, tongue dripping with loathing and scorn as if I am going to find another man and then another and another and I am going to lead them all a merry dance and leave a trail of broken hearts so you can call me a harlot and sleep at night, safe in the knowledge that my predisposition for the affection from others was what drove me from your door, instead of the old fashioned truth.

You were the one I had been searching for and if I am guilty of patterns, it’s only due to sifting through shards of broken men, like shells, until I could find one that could cut me the deepest.

And there you are – black and shining and wielding your judgement like a sword and your arrogance like a shield. And only as I lay dying on your beach, did I remember that there was more to my existence than living to be hurt by you. I licked my wounds clean, launched at you with every last drop of indignance that I had and got in my boat and left you on the shore.

You sliced through my skin and left me scarred and as I pulled away, I pulled fragments of your from my splintered skin, drowning the pain in liquid that set fire to the embers in my belly.

Patterns? I wear them like tattoos on my skin.