I just want to be held. I just want to be known. I think that’s all we ever want – to be known. Completely and wholeheartedly. Without judgements, without fear. To be swayed in the arms of someone we love. To be comforted on days we didn’t think we needed it. I want to mean something to someone. In a way they can’t live without. In a way that doesn’t make me feel incapable, unarmed to do the job.
And if my heart gets broken, I want it to be for real. Not the kind of broken we bring upon ourselves – through doubts and fears and no self worth. I want it to be for real. If my heart gets broken I want it to be because a boy sewed himself inside of me in a way no one else ever has. In a way that made me pull out all the poetic words I’ve ever known and script them onto paper. I want the left-behind sweatshirt to live in my bed on days I can’t get out of it and canisters of hair gel on my bathroom sink to remind me, I had it good. I had him good.
And then I didn’t. Because I’ll never forget that part – and then I didn’t.
When life took our sails and ordered them in a new direction. A different direction – one that didn’t allow us to bob along together anymore – that cut me so deep I thought I’d never come out whole.
Whole, whole, whole.
There’s never a whole after a heartbreak. Not like the one I grew up with; believing in fairytales and scrapped knees that could melt away with mama’s kisses. There’s never a time after a heartbreak when I can say, “ok, enough time has passed, all the parts of me are back inside my chest”. That time never comes because somewhere out there in this black hole of a world a little piece of me is carried to another relationship or an office party or a family gathering. Some piece of me will always be tattooed on his arm or sewn into his leather jacket, because I gave it away. I gave it away to someone who once upon a time stole my heart.
I had it good. I had him good.
And then I didn’t.