To the Lover Who Said I’m Too Much

It must have been hard for you, living in the bright light of my soul. It must have cast yours in shadow, and I can see how it was easier to dim my light than to look at your shadow-self. I remember how when we met you said that you loved everything about me. My boldness. My strength. My unapologetic passion for life. My tenacity. My stubborn refusal to bend to anyone else’s will. My opinionated nature. My loyalty. My independence. You said that you would never try to change the things that made me who I am.

But that bright light must have been ever so much brighter than what you expected. At first, it felt like the warmth of the sun, illuminating everything in your life to beautiful effect. But too much exposure to the sun can burn, and you nursed your sunburn with eyes that turned toward me in resentment. Then that small sting became a spark, became a flame, became a wildfire that consumed you. You could not rest until you dimmed the light.

That’s when your tone went from strained to unrestrained, your words from honey to venom. Your eyes could not see my brightness for warmth. All you could see was your own shadow self. All you could feel was the burn of that light, how it seemed to turn your world into shadow shapes and cast a demon-light across the features of a world grown unfamiliar.

Looking through my eyes was like staring directly into that eclipse, unable to look away while your retinas burned. You wanted dim light and darkness and the comfort of familiarity. You wanted the world returned to the way you thought it was, the way you thought it should be. My light became everything that was wrong with the world. Wrong with you. Wrong with me.

All the love burned out of you, although sometimes I could glimpse it hiding there somewhere behind your disapproval and resentment. Your embarrassment at my messy house and loud opinions. Your irritation that I couldn’t just fit into the mold of other women, mythical women of previous generations that you heard had bowed to the will of the man of the house. That picture grew more attractive as I grew less so.

After all, a man like you could never be attracted to a woman with the sun burning out of her eyes, whose words were flames meant to sear the sky and burn worlds. You saw yourself as the firefighter, wading in to save our burning home. You didn’t realize the only destroyer was the shadows that crept out behind you.

I watched those shadows, their cruel mimicry of the man I loved, and I knew that no amount of my loving you would ever make you feel less burned.