You May Be The Sun, But I’ll Always Be The Woman Who Loved You At Your Darkest


Lately, I’ve been more angry with you than anything else. I’m a little sorry. But not as sorry as I usually am. Maybe I’m not sorry. What I am is in love. I mean, It’s just that I know, I know, I know that I told you you’re the light. And you are. You are. You are. It’s just that right now, I’ve got a headache and I’m angry and, well, I don’t feel like basking in you. Not anymore. Not while I feel the burn. And I do. It burns. You burn.

Then I get more angry because I know you’d just say I should’ve known better. I mean, look look look at all those freckles. Right? But then I remember again (I’m always remembering)—remembering there was more to that. There was always more. Cause then I’d say I hate them. Those freckles. And you’d say you loved them. You’d say, Ya know, you’re the prettiest girl in the world. You know, you said that when I met you. But you also said it when I left you. Or you left me. Or made me leave. God, I just hate burning in the sun.

I’m angry again thinking about how you’d still blame me. That you do blame me. For not knowing better about you, like how you’re not the sun. How you’re no good. How I should’ve known known known. How I’m so wrong about your value. Lately I almost believed you and thought maybe I was wrong, but no no no—I never was. I know because I remember the glare and how impressed but afraid you were to watch a woman of petite stature strong enough to stand the intense light these baby blue eyes stared into. (Remember those baby blues? You had a hard time looking at them because they made you feel something.) That’s how I know I’m not wrong. My eyes reflected your sun. There it is.

You see, your light still fucking blinds me. But guess what? I’ll never pretend it’s not there. You’re still light. You’re still the fucking sun. You’re July. My favorite July. My sunniest summer. But you also still fucked me over because you didn’t like the way my heart was willing to weather your most difficult storms and the way my love was unafraid of your darkest nights. You hurt me because you never knew how to be loved unconditionally and feeling it now was more than even the strongest planet could handle.

Lately I’ve been more angry with you than anything else. Why? I can hear your voice, at first playful until you see I’m serious. And a sadness masked by stubborn pride will ask me shakily, your dark browns never meeting my blues, No, bug. C’mon. Why? How did I hurt you? So I’ll have to say, C’mon, you know.

And you’ll pretend your face doesn’t show what it does: that you do know and you do care but you can’t admit that. You can’t admit love. So, yes. You do know. How you fucked me over when you pretended I’d live under your warmth, safe and sound, through every season, when in reality you just liked the way I slowly burned at the sight of you. Your ego loved the view of my pride’s vulnerability and blatant disregard for a guard you promised was okay for me to put down.

Oh, but then here we are again. I’m back to never denying what you are to me—always, I circle back around, like the earth does you each day, to how I feel about you. And it’s simple—lately I’ve been more angry with you than anything else but, we both know my honesty is a quality even heartbreak can’t shake.

So here’s the truth.


You’ll always be the sun.

And for me?

I’ll always be the only woman that loved you at your darkest. I’ll always be the only summer you remember being shown your light.

So, now I’m not so angry with you because I know I know I know, when you dim again, you will look and look and look across the entire fucking universe, and clear as day, by the light of your own rays, you will see me again. Except by then I’ll be loved by another man who knew in an instant, on any given day, no matter the weather, from season to season, that I deserved every fucking planet.