Number 44
I could never let them love me.
I long to love someone again
who doesn’t make me want to flee.
Who I don’t wonder
about the what ifs.
Just enjoy the moments.
I don’t love these men.
But I’ll play the part.
And it’s unhealthy,
the next morning I’ve awakened
realize that it isn’t what I want.
He isn’t who I want.
It’s hard for me to be so soft.
But there are moments,
the few moments
where I take down my walls,
tell him what he means to me.
I think I’m still waiting.
For someone else
to love me in that capacity.
And it’s unfair,
I know that
we all love differently.
And I shouldn’t discredit
what someone has to offer
just because it’s not enough for me.
But I don’t have to stay.
I’m not wrong for needing
to be loved so warmly
that I forgot all the times I wasn’t.
Or needing to be his.
Or being the one he seeks out.
Or kissing him just right.
Or doing the little things I do
that he’s noticed over time,
and have fallen in love with.
Or being the one he sits
and talks to for hours,
where it seems like no time
has passed,
and we never touched each other.
I miss the love
where I learn about myself.
And I open his eyes
to new things.
I miss being told
when I’m wrong,
because I was wrong,
but still loved anyway.
I miss opening my mouth
to whisper the things
I never thought I’d share.
I miss being loved fully and wholly.
Every chapter read.
I miss someone getting me.
I miss being known.
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