From Your Former “Babygirl.”

It’s remarkable how often my thoughts jump through hula hoops.
One day I’m reminiscing heavily, wondering what could’ve been –
the next day, you’re barely a thought.
I realized that I miss you,
but not as much as I thought I would.
It’s the familiarity of having you in my life that I mourn as opposed to your presence,
because you were often emotionally absent,
even if you were sitting right beside me. 

It is weird yet relieving to know that this is the end.
It took years to arrive to the point where I feel comfortable not being able to text, call, or see you.
When something happens worth mentioning,
it stings knowing that I can’t share it,
but fortunately the feeling is fleeting.
I know in my heart that if you remained in my life, it would be because my love for you was tied to instant gratification,
not because you were supposed to be in my future. 

When I said I believe that you loved and cared for me to the best of your ability,
I meant it.
Just because we emote in different ways, doesn’t mean your feelings are invalid.
A large part of loving unconditionally is being able to let go when you know it’s for the best,
so I want you to know that not only do I want what’s best for me, I will always wish the best for you. 

The last time I wrote something along these lines I referred to myself as your “Babygirl” forever, but this go round my views have changed.
That’s not who I am anymore, and I couldn’t continue to be that even if I wanted to,
because one day another man is going to call me all of the things you called me and then some, and of them is “wife.” 

Loving you while being hurt by you has verified that just because people are seasonal doesn’t mean that they can’t serve as your mirror.
I often harped on your flaws,
but dealing with them also allowed me to see more of mine. 

So thank you, again:
For teaching me lessons through all that you did and all that you didn’t,
for giving me some pretty sweet memories,
and for being honest with me, no matter how much it hurt.
I hope you cherish our time together just as much as I do,
but more importantly,
I hope that down the line you choose the opposite of empty. 

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Halfway – 3/24/18

I’m only used to being loved halfway.
I don’t remember what it feels like to be poured in, to the brim,
spilling over because my heart cannot hold all that’s been given.
I’m only used to being touched as an object, not as their one and only.
Men have used sex as a form of expression,
which showed me they thought I was worth 
penetrating,
but not worth protecting.
They brought me pleasure, but couldn’t bring me peace.

Home – 3/14/15

Majority of the time, I hate coming home.
I hate having to hear the words I wish they’d never say.
I wish I didn’t remember the ones that they already did.
I hate the memories being home brings.
I hate how the walls hold so much history,
a lot of which I’ll never truly know the way I should.
Yet, this is a home nonetheless and it is mine.
It’s familiar.
Here is where my dog gives me all the love I look forward to receiving.
Here is where my mom and I laugh and cry until night becomes morning.
Here is where I cuddle with my grandma while we watch TV.
Home is often times hectic.
Home often times hurts.
But I have one,
and many can’t say the same.

Ghost – 3/1/15

I’m constantly going back and forth;
always unsettled.
I never have a balance,
because no such thing exists with you.
Even if we speak, we aren’t communicating
because when you talk, it is never about what needs to be said.
Our conversations are so casual,
when our previous relationship was anything but.
So is this how it’s going to be?
Me scratching the surface when our truth is embedded
in depths we may never reach because you won’t dare to venture?
You occupy my mind.
Thoughts of you have returned to distract me, to deter me and to cause me to dwell.
I know this scenario far too well…
Always on my mind,
yet forever hard to find.

I Wonder… – 12/24/18

I watch my mom examine herself in the mirror in the upstairs bathroom.
We haven’t talked much tonight.
She’s been running around the kitchen, prepping for yet another holiday.
She’s hot. She’s sweaty.
She’s tired, and complaining about how the bags look under her eyes.

She’s beautiful to me.
But I can’t help but wonder,
is this the life I’m going to live?
I hate cooking.
I don’t care much for holidays.
I know they hold such a significant amount of meaning,
but they always feel like “just another day,”
that just so happens to have a surplus of food. 

Maybe when I have a family of my own my sentiments will start to change.
But that’s the thing.
I don’t want to be like my mother.
I don’t want to labor for hours on end for the sake of other people’s fulfillment,
for the simple fact that I’m expected to.
I don’t want to put my all into a dinner that most people will only appreciate fleetingly. 

I love my mom to death, but even I’m spoiled by her generosity and hospitality.
Can you be a family woman without upholding societal and gender norms?
Does that make me selfish,
to not want to get up at the crack of dawn
just to cut, peel, simmer, and bake? 

Will I make a good wife?
Will I be a good mom?
I desire to follow in her footsteps to a certain degree.
I’m torn between wanting to fill her shoes
and avoiding walking in them.

Life After Death – 2/23/16

I wish I had kept recent pictures;
they are the only ways I can see you now.
I can’t remember at what point I had already lost you –
if only I could go back and figure it out.

I allowed you to destroy me.
Your aberration turned into my anger.
Underneath its layers was utter sadness
that built up over time.

I said I accepted you.
I said I got over it.
I said that we could be cool,
never defining what that actually meant.

Your treatment of me never swayed me from caring.
If only we had argued less.
If only reminiscing would provide some sort of consolation.

I can leave these hollow grounds knowing that although my heart is heavy,
my conscience is free.
I loved you with more than all of me,
even after death.

The Funeral(s) – 1/9/15

My nose is stuffy,
my eyes are tearing.
I’m not sad,
but I’m thinking of you.

I looked at that casket,
careful not to catch a glimpse of his face,
and I thought silently to myself,
about how this could be you.

Boxed up and breathless with your soul removed,
probably down below.
And I’d sit in my seat, tormented by my pain
While thoughts of all the time we spent would remain.

I cried a bit at his funeral.
It hurt to see people I used to know cry.
It hurt to see the mothers of his children cry.
It hurt to see his father cry,
for no parent should have to bury their son.
I cried a bit at his funeral.
some of those tears were for you.