I've been sitting on this for awhile. Afraid to be so personal so publicly. Afraid you'll read this. This post is part of Write Your Ass Off April, a Twenties Unscripted 10-Day Writing Challenge #WYAOApril is beautiful and perfect.
"I too have a lot of scars"
That, I could stay in his basketball jersey while he plays me his favorite music and plays in my fro all day, wake up early and make him breakfast, roll over and wonder how I got this lucky kind of like - not love because I don’t know if this was that. But, boy did it feel good. Felt safe. Felt essential. New, but comfortable all at the same time. You see, I too have a lot of scars. Some I knew existed, the scab was still there, freshly healed. Other’s less visible with reverberations on me still…
I needed to believe again. Believe that there was more out there than fuck boys or guys only after one thing. You ever meet someone and just instantly feel seen, understood, and comfortable? That’s what this was.
It’s like, I saw you and made up my mind. Like God knew I needed to meet you at that exact time, because if I didn’t, then I’d be a goner. And, maybe we’ll never meet again. Maybe, we just came into each other’s life for a season. You, to teach me how to be in the moment and just enjoy something without wondering where it’s going and fantasizing about marriage and babies - even though that of course happened too. And me, well I don’t know why you needed to meet me – only you can answer that.
Only, you won't, don't, answer that. Communication wasn't always our strong suit. So I'll probably never know. I'm left instead attempting to purge myself of you, us, we, together. Except, purging never works for me. To love is to become apart of. To heal, is to accept this union and figure out how to walk forward anyway - moving on has never been apart of my truth. Always been a lie someone told me thinking it would help.
Thanks for making me believe again. I hope we healed you too.