I thought that, as I started to heal, I’d be less lonely.
I was wrong.
These “healthy” boundaries keep me far from bad decisions, also known as boys, and lonely at night.
They let me see red flags as red flags, not a hero’s cape come to save me. Not as a blanket that will warm.
I don’t cry at night like I used to, hoping someone would pick me. That I would be the prize. That I was a trophy.
Now my tears are softer. I am lonelier. The loneliness is my companion, and we sit together eating thin mints, watching Star Trek Voyager.
Healing is eerily like… a less catastrophic version of myself. Less drama. Less trauma.
Wanting someone who will text me first. Blast me in texts. That will say goodnight. That will fuck me into laughter. That will hold my hand. That will be there when I wake up.
I didn’t think I could heal. I didn’t know what it would look like.
Looking at it, I have mixed feelings.
I see past lovers through kinder, if not clearer eyes.
I am not eager for any scrap of attention; I’m aware of just how starved I was.
there is loneliness in this self worth.