I ached for you. And though I would never look back, I broke a part of myself in order to break free, and sometimes, this new skin is colder than the original, tougher—by necessity, but nonetheless lonely. I am not the innocent blonde in your backyard anymore. I am not the summer girl in your bed. I am not your letter-writing illusion across the country.
My words are mine. But because they belong solely to me, they are often alone.
Strong. But alone.
I am frustrated with the way I have slapped myself in the face.
Because with Jesse, I head-on trusted what I’ve been running away from all along.
And so, it is not about what he did to me, it is about the self-guided collision course I blindly drove through.
It is about the small feeling that somewhere within me, I am back where I started.
And that others have found their place in the space I sensed I would fill.
I am nowhere near what you’ve found.
When no one is listening, a stealthy sense of self-pity offers its company.
I loathe its voice.
I can be strong alone, but must I be?
Lyndsi Shae 2:48 AM
"There is no excellent beauty which hath not some strangeness of proportions."