Maybe Losing You Wasn’t A Loss

Lesly B Juarez

A day like this when I’m down, and broken, and confused — I remember you. A day like this when I fall short on the things that I normally do best, when I say the wrong thing, when I realize I’m not as good as I think I am — I want you by my side. A day like this when every step I take feels heavy and getting out of the bed seems like a chore — I miss you.

I miss you because I have no one to talk to, no one to understand me, and no one who cares. I miss you because it sucks to face all this mess on my own, especially when all I want is someone’s shoulder to rest my head, and cry.

I miss you so badly. And I’m not going to keep it to myself.

I’m no longer afraid to see the cringe on your face when I get to be emotional. Because that’s who I am. I feel things, deeply, immensely, sensitively. I wear my emotion on my face. I say what’s on my mind, even if it embarrasses me, even if people misunderstand me.

I do what I think is best for me, without feeling sorry. Because that’s me — raw, authentic, real.

And you don’t like that about me.

You don’t like that I’m too open. You don’t like that I’m too easy to read, too easy to fool, too easy to take advantage of. You don’t like the way I become too much, the way I get too excited, the way I laugh a little too loud, the way I smile to everything I find adorable. You don’t like it when I talk a mile a minute.

You only like me when I’m quiet, and timid, and shy. You only like me when I nod my head to everything that you say. You only like me when I play dumb and clueless about your intentions. You only like me when I let you win, only because I’m not in the mood to argue with you.

You only like me when I’m vulnerable, so you can convince yourself that you’re stronger than me. And maybe that’s why losing you in my life feels like a weight off my shoulder after all.

Maybe it’s time for me to stop letting people who can’t accept or understand me, come in my life. Maybe it’s time for me to start looking for people who will love me without a mask on.

Maybe losing you in my life means I can be myself all the time, without worrying whether I’m pleasing you or not.

Maybe losing you gives me an opportunity to know myself more, to know why I fall for someone who treats me like garbage, and to discover the direction to head next.

Maybe losing you is the best thing that could ever happen to me because looking back, I’ve had more days feeling miserable than feeling happy.

Maybe losing you means getting rid of the toxins that have been slowly destroying me.

You see, I long for you when I’m broken because I have convinced myself that there’s still softness in your cold heart, and that will care for me. But if that’s true, I wouldn’t have lost you.

But I lost you because I realize I don’t really need you. I realize I can be my own savior on my darkest days. I can smile my way through the life, no matter how crushed I am on the inside. I can be my own cheerleader when the world goes quiet on me.

And I can be perfectly fine on my own.

Losing you has only lead me to a better path that is worth trekking, even without you. TC mark

Angelo Caerlang

Angelo Caerlang is the author of Sparks in Broken Lights.

Seeds Planted In Concrete

This poetry collection by Bianca Sparacino is an assembly of words that celebrates the resilience of the human heart through stages of hurting, feeling, healing and loving.

“Be alone. Eat alone, take yourself on dates, sleep alone. In the midst of this you will learn about yourself. You will grow, you will figure out what inspires you, you will curate your own dreams, your own beliefs, your own stunning clarity, and when you do meet the person who makes your cells dance, you will be sure of it, because you are sure of yourself.”

★★★★★ “One of the best, if not the best, modern poetry collections you can read. Absolutely incredible. Her words are so wise, intricate and delicate that you feel them caressing your soul. I love this book, I love it so very much.” —Hayder

Buy This Beautiful Book

More From Thought Catalog