We are all heroes, when we are young.

We are all convinced that we can save the world.

I really thought I could save him. I thought that so hard that I tried to save him from this world. I thought that so hard that I tried to save him from me.

I tried so hard. My world is dark, sometimes. It gets so sad. I didn’t want him to have to be sad with me.

Where do we get the idea that sadness is something to be ashamed of? Something that hurts people.

All the things I never wanted him to have to see. This body that is a scar of all the graves I have dug, all the friends who I have buried. I never wanted him to have to touch me.

That is not to say I did not want him to touch me. Only, I subscribed to the notion of heroism that says saving someone and dying for them are the exact same thing.

I don’t want to die. And I can live without him. If I had to. I could, but broken. Irreparably.

I don’t know how love works for other people. I only know how love works for me.

This love of mine, it’s messy. I say cruel things. Maybe unforgivable things. I tell my story to the wall built over his heart. I sing my story to the man inside the glass coffin. I think maybe he wanted to be my Prince Charming. I wanted to be his knight in shining armor, too.

The only thing I could think of that he might need saving from was me. So typical paternalistic lordling that I am, I went to work.