I barely remember you most days;
I try to recall your image, and it’s like I’m
squinting into the sun. And sometimes
when I hear your voice, it feels both like
home and a strange land I’ve never been to.
When I knew you, I never thought of you
that way, not once. I remember “I love you”
dancing anxiously on my lips the last time we met,
but I never said it (because it wasn’t true).
I just wanted you to stay.
I remember gazing into your brown eyes
searching desperately for anything,
but I found nothing -
no hope, no redemption,
so I eventually looked down.
You couldn’t save me.
It’s not love, it’s limerence.
You accepted me.
You sat with me in sacred silence.
Waited patiently when I could barely lift my head.
Promised you’d always be there each week.
You were there when I didn’t know if I was a guy or not…
when I felt the deepest shame…
when I said I deserved more abuse…
when I showed my arms and you didn’t look away.
I miss you in every possible way.
And I carry shame for not being able to let go,
hearing people tell me it sounded too close to a relationship.
I just want someone like you.
And now, it’s reflecting on him.
Wanting him to hold my hand in the forest,
to tuck me in at night,
to read me a bedtime story,
to make me blueberry pancakes in the morning.
I want to sit in his office all day and
have him chase all the monsters away.
I want to be held.
I want him to keep me safe when I don’t know how.
And I’m afraid there will never be anyone.
I’m afraid no one will love me for me.
I’m afraid I will never be enough
