I wanted to be with you
more than I wanted to be myself.
I craved your appetite for me.
Longed for your love expressed
in compliments.
The feeling of your lips against my forehead.
Your arms around me a promise kept.
Daffodils and slow dances in our kitchen.
Nights out with friends,
our love familiar and comforting.
A choice as simple as
choosing you.
My home in you.
I wanted to be with you
more than I wanted the truth.
My idea of us continuously ruined
by the reality of who you were and weren’t.
There was never a single daffodil.
I spent more and more time trying to cover
lies with hope and my tears with pillowcases.
My body trembled but not with passion.
Your lips spelled hate,
insecurities and rejection projected.
I wanted to love you
less and less.
It became more about
why you didn’t want me.
I would wish it all away now,
if there was an easier path.
I had to die to find me.
Perhaps I was reborn in the fire.
It took therapy and long hours at the gym.
Lengthy journal entries and self help books
for the win.
Months passed before I started to feel free
from all that had happened.
Now it feels confusing
to have loved you.
A memory of a memory.
A stranger with an air of familiarity.
When I think of you I can’t recall your face
nor any of the love
that made me forget who I am.
Poetry on Paper 