My naivete would amuse me
If it was not mine

My groping, doleful, soulful belief
That I’d cry
But not for too long
That I’d hurt
But just for awhile
That I’d mourn
But then rise up renewed

I tell myself stories

Some days I convince myself
That I’m strong, sure and striving
Some days I whimper
That I’m afraid, alone and abandoned
Some days I grieve
That I’m unlikeable, unloved and unworthy
Some nights I pray
That I’ll find hope, healing and happiness

I feel it
Fully and brutally in my soul
I am embarrassed by the strength and rawness of the pain

Imagining you long since moved on and away from me, from us

Picturing you reading my thoughts and you pleased that you have forged ahead

Knowing you will not read these words

I must accept the silence as truth though the access to such freedom eludes me

It does not matter how you grieve
(though my heart yearns to know)
I am not worth less for still being here

I loved deeply
Such love will not fade by internal force or external pressures
It pulses on and I will not flee from the beat

I could not
Would not
Shall not
In a way that the loss of that love does not cut me to the soul
Time slowing to heal and to mend

That is the love that I felt
The love that I lost

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