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.