I Smiled While Bleeding
Could We Have Made It?
I wonder if we could have been one.
I still wonder—quietly, painfully—what we might’ve been.
We were together, sorta. But there was always an escape hatch.
You always had an out.
And another option you threw in my face like it was business as usual.
You held the door half-open but never let me in fully.
And every time I leaned in,
tried to build something real,
You’d wave your “out” in my face like a flag:
See? I can leave, or you can go.
You used to say I was insecure.
No.
I needed to rely on your word.
I needed to stand on The Rock, not shifting sand.
Jesus talked about that, remember? The house built on sand will fall.
I was trying to build something steady, rooted, eternal—
a covenant.
Not a fling.
Not a placeholder.
Not a meal ticket.
Not a cold arrangement where I stayed loyal and you kept your options warm.
Your texts to Satan—yes, that’s what I said—
They stabbed me.
Because I know who he is.
I know his character.
And I know God’s Word about him.
So when you texted him,
When you let him in,
When you called his abuse “nobody’s perfect,”
My heart dropped to the floor and shattered.
On your angry dates with him,
I thought my heart would burst out of my chest.
Literally.
Like it was pounding its fists on the walls of my ribs, begging me to flee.
But I didn’t.
You piled on whopping lies to keep me distracted—babysitting, covering your tracks—
While I planned your best birthday ever.
Ironic, right?
I played the background clown in your story.
You wore the crown.
I set the table.
We all sang.
And I smiled while bleeding.
Worse—your backup. Your second-string.
The emotional janitor.
You let the devil dine,
While I carried the wine.
And as Ian Hunter sang:
“Somewhere in the night he's calling
And somewhere in your heart you're falling
I'll forgive you when you stay out late and you never phone
I'll forgive you even though I'll never understand
I'll forgive you 'cause you're all I've got and I love you
But I'll never forgive the other man.”
Not just him.
But the twisted version of you who made him possible.
The you who saw how I showed up with innocent hands and a gentleman’s heart of gold—
But chaos ensued.
And now I see it.
You weren’t choosing love.
You were choosing attention, drama, backup plans—
But not me.
I stayed away for six months.
Didn’t text. Didn’t beg. Didn’t chase.
I waited throughout Satan’s abuse—only when you reached out did I answer.
Because I loved you enough to let you go.
I wasn’t going to be your insurance policy.
I hoped you might come back wanting me—
not for comfort, not for convenience—
But for real.
But you didn’t.
Or couldn’t.
Or wouldn’t.
What I longed for wasn’t complicated.
Just respect.
Just that thing God gives every soul—dignity.
Especially when that soul showed up honest, reliable, prayed, sacrificed, and forgave.
You said I was too good.
You mocked my manners.
You wanted roughness, macho, danger.
And I brought honour.
That was my flaw, I guess.
But I didn’t leave.
I stayed longer than I should’ve.
Because I believed in us.
I wonder sometimes if we ever had a shot.
If we’d cleared out the noise, the ghosts of the past, the temptations, the sin, the games
Could we have made it?
Could we have partnered side by side?
No exits, no lies,
No other man?
I'll never know.
But I do know this:
I was never afraid to love you.
You were just too insecure to be loved.
Mick, The Doctor of Digital Book Doctor 🚨 I Diagnose Why Manuscripts Die & Revive Them Into Authority-Building Books | Literary CPR for Thought Leaders & Visionaries
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