This is my last letter.

No more good-byes from a broken heart of a broken woman who lives with broken promises from a broken man who broke her.

No more tears to cry or words that can express the pain of a broken heart torn to shreds for ego and pomp and circumstance.

His side of the bed, a boneyard of broken promises and abandoned dreams of forever defiled by habits he couldn’t contain that got the best of him and ruined us and the promise we made to God of forever, together for better or worse. But he only cared about better and worse made him bitter and bitter broke us and me.

Religion is a sacred thing, comforting when you are down and responsible when you are up but I can’t reconcile my religion with being a woman because black girls can’t show weakness because we are magic.

So I put on a happy face for my children to set the example that moms can’t be broken because we step up when fathers leave because they have the option of walking out, unlike mothers who carry children inside, and out, the womb.

He who finds a wife finds a great thing but the agony of forever appears when the representative leaves and the real you starts to show. Who can fake forever?

“I love you” is a promise that I didn’t commit to myself.

Addiction is a high with lows unimaginable and I lost myself in trying to save something I couldn’t control.

I have dreams of my open casket with him crying, screaming he loved me with more emotion than he showed me in life for an audience of adulterous women and family members who couldn’t figure out the truth because there are two sides to every story. What’s the point? There are no flowers in death.

In private he confesses his love and still calls me his wife but hates me to a world that loves a show. The lines become blurred between what he says and what he does so it is confusing and I don’t know what to do, in a tiny town surrounded by his support system, lost between being loyal to his last name and rediscovering myself in the madness; a loyalty to my father. Love is fleeting that way.

So when you turn to friends and ignore unGodly advice and religion offers you solace and nothing more, no wonder death looks appealing because there is no pain in ending.

I look at the weapon placed on his side beside me wondering if it is the end or a new beginning. Heaven seems better than Earthly living but suicide is a sin.

I have these thoughts and out of nowhere my four year old walks into my room and says “Mommy, let’s pray.” Interventions come in many forms and sometimes God sends messengers that you never expected at the most unexpected times.

So I hold her hand as she eloquently tells me God loves me and how amazing I am. She knows scripture because she’s trained up in a way that is magic and I appreciate her village, everyone is amazing in their own way even if I fail to communicate it through my anger and disappointment in the outcome that is my broken marriage.

I stare at her confused because much like her birth, she’s always been right on time and saved me like God and the Book of James.

This is why they say children are the light because after she prayed, my son came in and kissed me on the forehead then went back downstairs to watch YouTube after he told me he loved me and missed me. But I never left.

God’s perfect timing.

So I look at them and look at death and I have a decision. Most days I choose to live but today, I don’t know if I can make that decision because I see no way out of my unhappiness.

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