PATCHWORK HEART


I’m sorry for my patchwork heart, which has grown so accustomed to being torn apart.
I’m sorry the things you sometimes say affect me in the completely wrong way. You see, the honest truth is that old cliche: It’s not you, baby; it’s me.
You shouldn’t always have to tread so carefully. It’s just that I have been that girl before—the one who blindly wore love goggles, constantly reassuring herself that, “he didn’t mean it that way.” Always making excuses for him, always searching for the best, I refused to see the truth that was right in front of my face. 
I wore blinders until the truth punched me in the gut.
Now, I oftentimes find that my once innocent mind has become tainted by the cruelty of my past relationships.
I know that you are not him, but sadly that doesn’t wash away the muddy footprints he left across my heart. I have cleaned, and I have scrubbed, but there are still some ugly remnants adorning my heart that will only wear off in time.
I know your goal is not to tear me apart, but I need you to understand the history of this patchwork heart.
“You are not him.” I have repeated time and time again.
And you certainly aren’t.
You are everything that he isn’t. You are everything right for me, I don’t doubt that, so please be patient with me. My heart is yours, yet I have loaned it out for a few careless test drives before.
That silly cliche is true. Baby, it’s not you.
I put up guards and locks around this heart after I found it continually being robbed, burnt to ashes by careless lovers before.
Then there’s you, and in the back of my mind I am terrified of how badly this burn could hurt. By default, all of my alarms sound. I look for comparisons and try to run often—even though I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be here with you, but these scars tell me to run. They tell me that everyone is going to hurt me.
My alarms sound, and my heart is in panic mode, but I am still here.
You’re right; you aren’t him.
You are you, and even though you love me right, I still need you to please be patient with this patchwork heart. I am trusting you to not tear it back apart.
“You are not him.” I have repeated time and time again.
And you certainly aren’t.
You are everything that he isn’t. You are everything right for me, I don’t doubt that, so please be patient with me. My heart is yours, yet I have loaned it out for a few careless test drives before.
That silly cliche is true. Baby, it’s not you.
I put up guards and locks around this heart after I found it continually being robbed, burnt to ashes by careless lovers before.
Then there’s you, and in the back of my mind I am terrified of how badly this burn could hurt. By default, all of my alarms sound. I look for comparisons and try to run often—even though I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to be here with you, but these scars tell me to run. They tell me that everyone is going to hurt me.
My alarms sound, and my heart is in panic mode, but I am still here.
You’re right; you aren’t him.
You are you, and even though you love me right, I still need you to please be patient with this patchwork heart. I am trusting you to not tear it back apart.
“She never seemed shattered; to me, she was a breathtaking mosaic of the battles she has won.” 

~ Matt Baker~

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