I wasn’t nothing.
I was there; I read what you wrote to me. We fell asleep and woke up to each other words.
I was there; I was vulnerable. I was open with you in ways I haven’t been in such a long time.
I was there; I saw how you looked at me. How easy it was to talk with you, to laugh.
I was there; I felt the flutter. You know the flutter.
I was there; I felt your arm snake around my waist in the dark.
I was there; I know how your lips feel on mine. I know how you taste.
I was there; I can remember every kiss stolen in the dark. Every touch.
No matter how easy it was to dismiss me, I wasn’t nothing.
Maybe the details didn’t matter to you, but they mattered to me. I didn’t get to choose how deeply you cut me, but this wound still bleeds.
You made me feel like I was nothing.
If I wasn’t nothing, it would have been harder to let me go. Was I too much? Was I not enough? You say no one is “more “or “less” than anyone else, but I wasn’t anything to you. If I had been softer, or funnier, or prettier, or skinnier, if I didn’t swear like a sailor and cry so easily and feel everything so deeply, maybe you would have stayed.
Or maybe not.
I’m not trying to cover up the hurt or deny it exists. I learned a long time ago that feelings demand to be felt and that they will consume you until you face off with them. But I’ve also learned there is no shame in feeling, that healing isn’t linear, and that grief isn’t just reserved for death.
I’m letting this wound bleed. I’m letting people see the scars its left on my soul and being honest and clear about what hurts. If you have to feel it to heal it, then I can assure you I am healing. It’s not the pretty picture of smiles and sunshine people imagine, but it’s my journey. I didn’t choose it, but I wouldn’t change it. Just like I wouldn’t trade in our late nights, or the fingerprints you left on my spine. Our memories aren’t nothing.
I wasn’t nothing.