Thank you for hurting me.
If you are still broken hearted, it will never be possible for you to let them in and be ready to love again.
Look in the mirror and see someone who is fighting a small war, but still getting out of bed every day and not giving up.
I know somewhere locked inside you is the good man I once knew, but I don’t know how much longer I can be picked apart like this.
The more that I started speaking my own “truth,” the more I noticed people starting to respect me and my decisions.
I spent a large part of my childhood and teenage years trying to “find what makes me whole” because I believed that my dad left an empty space in my life that I had to fill.
Over the years, I became conditioned to the process – death, Twitter outrage, and then reflection. My sense of self warped as I came more into my African American roots; understanding what happens, will happen, and can happen to me.
Of course it’s better to claim it wasn’t meant to be. It lessens the hurt. Makes it easier to sleep at night.
One day, things will have supposed to hurt, but miraculously they won’t.
You were happy because your friend was getting married and when I told you that we would get to that point; you paused and that pause was the loudest rejection I have ever heard.