I Crumbled by Tyra Lynette

I don’t crumble like the average cookie…

My version of crumbling was telling you that you can just ‘hit my line’ whenever you got the chance and I would be there. I accepted the fact that I was no longer of any importance to you.

My version of crumbling was putting myself on a level that dangerously fogged my brain just so that I could voice my thoughts and the pain would be masked with a fit of giggles and you wouldn’t be able to take me seriously. I was silently being heard.

My version of crumbling was acting like it was okay when you completely bailed on me when I felt that the next breath I took would break my ribs but if the tables were turned I would give you my pure lungs in exchange for your defective ones. I realized no one would ever be as solid for me as I was for them.

My version of crumbling was reducing stressed conversations to a simple ‘smiley face’ emoji message sent to you every morning just to let you know I thought about you. I sent that same message every four hours just so that you can acknowledge me.

My version of crumbling is taking impromptu 3 hour drives to the beach in the middle of the night because the weight of all my compressed thoughts would definitely claim my life if I tried to sleep through another haunted night.

My version of crumbling is playing out every way a scenario could go and preparing myself for the worst. Because I know that the stability that I instill in everyone else’s life is absent in my own.

My version of crumbling IS NOT the constant smile on my face and the joy for life that I possess. I can promise you that it is genuine. But when it gets late at night, the negativity of the world lays its head in the depths of my soul.

But I wouldn’t crumble in any other way, if my crumbling in such silence helps you. Then baby, act like I’m as strong in the day as I am at night.

See you thought that was my process of ridding myself of you but it was my process of getting closer to you. I crumbled and you never knew.