"It's not that I don't love you, it's the sound I heard when I was nine and my father slammed the door so hard behind him swear to God it shook the whole house. For the next three years I watched my mother break her teeth on vodka bottles. I think she stopped breathing when he left. I think part of her died. I think he took her heart with him when he walked out. Her chest is empty, just a shattered mess of cracked ribs and prescription pills.
It's not that I don't love you, it's all the blood in the sink. It's the night I spent twelve hours in the emergency room waiting to see if my sister was going to be okay after the boy she loved told her he didn't love her anymore. It's the crying and the fluorescent lights and the white sneakers and pale faces and shaky breathes and blood. So much blood.
It's not that I don't love you, it's the time that I had to stay up for two days straight with my best friend while she cried and shrieked and threw up on my bedroom floor because her boyfriend fucked his ex. I swear to god she still has tear streaks stained onto her cheeks. I think when you love someone, it never really goes away.
It's not that I don't love you, it's the six weeks we had a substitute in English because our teacher was getting divorced and couldn't handle getting out of bed. When she came back she was smiling but her hands shook so hard when she held her coffee, you could see that something was broken inside. And sometimes when things break, you can't fix them. Nothing ever goes back to how it was. I got an A in English that year. I think her head was always spinning too hard to read any essays.
It's not that I don't love you, it's that I do."
