The scars of your love

The ring finger on my left hand bears witness to my absent husband. Two tired grooves, as worn in as I am and now part of me. The skin is shiny. I have been permanently branded a failure.

Which is possibly why I’m trying so hard – too hard – with The Pirate. Not because he is The One, but because I am buggered if I am failing at another relationship so soon after the last one.

I’m not sure stubbornness is the basis for anything much really. And come to that, walking away with your self-respect mostly intact really isn’t failing. But while my head knows these things, my will is taking a little longer to catch up.

It would help tremendously if my left ring finger didn’t silently admonish me with its missing ironmongery. I used to play with my wedding and engagement rings, running my finger over the tops. I still do now they’re sold and gone, rubbing the silvery skin over and over, trying to erase the guilt. Out, damned spot…

I feel so guilty that I couldn’t keep my family together for my boy. I can’t tell you how amazing he is. I can’t tell you how much he deserves perfection, stability, security, a solid family unit. He deserves so much better than what he’s got.

And fuck it, so do I.

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