I close my eyes. Breathe in. Keep my eyes closed and listen to the air as it pushes past my lips. So many words behind those lips. So many thoughts rambling, colliding against the sides of my skull.
I wish you could know that my words sing like melodies in my head. They filter through my mind, already in poetry. I’m thinking of you. I wish you understood what I’m saying. That I do love you. Maybe I’m afraid of loving. Maybe I’m afraid of you, of this.
Maybe we’re not meant to be.
I’ve repeated these words to myself: fearless independent, strong. That’s what I have told myself to be. I have written it to pages, to the soles of my feet, sewn it to the veins around my heart. I want to be strong. I want to be my own.
But yours. I want to be yours, too. Can I be both?
I wish I could make you understand that I am stubborn. That I can’t always see when I’m wrong. I’ve never meant to hurt. I see now, I was. But you, you were hurting me. The way I felt so small, the way I felt mistrusted. I don’t deserve your angry words, phone calls dropped with the silence ringing in my ear.
I wish I could make you understand. Tell you that you promise me these big things, these things I cling to with tired hands, wishing for something I’m afraid isn’t really there. You promise me big things but don’t show little things. How can I believe in these wild promises if you don’t stay?
I want to believe in you, I do. But I need more.
I’m sitting here thinking in verse, thinking in poetry. Imagining your hands around another girl’s waist. Wondering how you could be so far gone so quickly. You pull away from me. Laugh in my face. Try to make me jealous. I wish I knew the words running through your mind, if it’s all a façade or if I really don’t mean anything to you. Anymore.
I was warned from the beginning. Should I have known better? I look over our pictures, our faces so happy. I want to hear your voice, feel your fingers run through my hair. I want to tell you that I want all these things.
But I’m sitting here, eyes closed. Breathing in. Breathing out. Silent.
I say nothing at all. Because I recognize that the silence is what I know. The absence of you, the truth that maybe we’re not meant to be.
And maybe, as much as that hurts, I will be okay. I will be okay.
Featured Image Credit: Brad Lloyd
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