When you told me that you didn’t love me. I was not surprised. I did not stop to question how you couldn’t love someone as empty as myself. I was disappointed, I will admit it, but isn’t this always how it goes? Tears falling down windows in the dark. Clutching to a coat I never liked in the first place. Forcing every nerve in my body to pretend that somehow everything is fine. I was not surprised that you left, just disappointed. Once again shaking a finger at myself in the mirror. Closing my eyes until it sounded like another bottle of pills. Telling myself that I wasn’t enough. I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not surprised that I hate myself..... I never have been. Just disappointed. Disappointed that this is all I’ve become. After 21 years of rebuilding, that this is all I could manage to put together. A body unworthy of love, or at least that’s what they tell me. Alone in the darkness at an empty kitchen table. The stove light casting shadows on my jaw like a movie. Except the theater is empty and all the chairs have gone except mine. All I wanted was to be loved. Just for a moment. Just to know how it feels. But at least it wasn’t a knife this time. At least the pool forming in my palms is from tears and not from my own blood. That pain in my chest is still a wound, but at least it’s not a knife wound. Yes it will still leave scars and I know it may never fully heal, but I’m not surprised. Just disappointed.

This poem is about: 



I felt this 

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