Defending you

"I suppose you do love me, in your own way," I said to him one night. "And how else should I love you—in your way?" he asked. I'm still thinking about that

“I would defend your name to God if it was your mistreatment of me that was not allowing you into heaven.”

I’d stand there and say it wasn’t just you. It was my fault too. I wasn’t easy to love either. I know that now. I shouted, I screamed, I provoked, I blamed. I needed reassurance in ways that felt like accusations. I turned silence into proof you didn’t care, turned distance into betrayal before you could explain your side. I made everything heavier than it had to be. Every fight felt like the end of the world to me, and I made sure it felt that way to you too. I hurt you so much, made you despise my name. My words cut like glass when I got mad, and I never stopped to see how deep they went until all I could see were scars.

Loving me must have felt like walking on something fragile—like one wrong step and everything would shatter. Like you had to measure your words, your tone, your presence, just to keep me from falling apart. And maybe that’s why you stopped trying so hard. Maybe that’s why loving me started to feel like a burden instead of something you chose.

So if we’re deciding who deserves heaven based on blame, then maybe I shouldn’t be standing at those gates either. Maybe I’d have to look God in the eye and admit that I broke things too—just in quieter ways, in ways that looked like love.

You went through more than I ever admitted out loud, and you stayed longer than you had to. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

I’d tell Him maybe you did love me. In your own fucked up way, you did—at least I think you did. Just not in a way that felt like love when I needed it. Not in a way that knew how to hold me without breaking me. Your love wasn’t gentle. It felt like distance even when you were right there. Like being held by someone whose grip kept loosening and you can’t do anything about it.

But it was there in moments—in the way you stayed when you could have left, in the way you came back even after I pushed you away, in the way you looked at me like you understood me, until you didn’t anymore. Until you didn’t want to.

Your love made a space in my heart and clung so tightly that when it tried to leave, it tore something with it. It left a hole there. Poisoned my heart—turned it rotten—that’s how strong your love was. It taught me that love could hurt and still be called love. And I believed it. God, I believed it so much that even now I’m still trying to prove it was real.

Something must have been there, right? People don’t stay for no reason. Or maybe they do. Maybe that’s just me still defending you, still convincing myself.

I’d say all the things I used to tell my friends when they looked at me like I was foolish for staying. All the things I whispered to myself at night when missing you felt heavier than the pain you caused.

I’d give you reasons you never even asked for. Excuses you never deserved. I’d say you didn’t know how to love. Or you didn’t know how to show it. Or that life was unfair to you first. I’d build you a story where you were still worthy of forgiveness, even if you never asked for it.

I would defend you like that— fiercely, blindly, completely.

I would defend your name to God if it was your mistreatment of me that was not allowing you into heaven. And then, when the gates opened for you, I’d turn around… and choose a place where I’d never have to see you again.