I’ve been alone in love for so long that I don’t know what it feels like to lay with someone who wants more than just my skin to rub against theirs. I know how to love but not to be loved. I still struggle with pride, with forgiving mistakes and compromise because no one did it for me; I was always made to sacrifice, sometimes parts of me, sometimes parts of my soul.
I’m used to assumptions and investments with no return, assuming I’m too much but still need to do more to be enough. Wondering, questioning my worth. Wondering if they think about me when I’m not around, if my silence tempts them to rethink their actions; maybe their reprimand was too loud, it screamed punishment instead of tough love.
On some days, I could not tell if I was made for flaws or made to be loved flawfully, some used my demons as ammunition and others made me a target for the aspects that made them self-conscious. Rarely was reassurance a part of my regime.
My experience of romance can easily be called self-torment. I knew I deserved better but still I stayed, never wondering what would happen the day better finally came along. They say only hurt people, hurt people but I hope to never hurt someone who really loves me, someone like you.