It feels good to be believed in, so my heart is encouraged to rest a while, to become comfortable in a new dream. I’m allowed to believe. Told I’m amazing. My patience encouraged with mantras of, “I feel like I’m almost there.”
It’s a dream to be held dear, a hope to bravely walk into the unknown
I wake with a bump, thump, tumbling tug at my heart. Again, a rag doll tethered to the hope of love, I have become a plaything.
My open heart — a lovely place for loneliness to rest a spell.
When I ask after intentions, the behavior begins.
Texts left without response. Open weekends filled with affection discarded. Last minute plans as a plus one. My time given no value. Vulnerability hidden by indications of a painful history that will be shared later … always later. It’s hard for me to trust, I am told. I want to keep seeing you, but I’m just not ready for more.
I’ve seen these signs in others and chose to believe: if I gave a little more hearts would open, but this time I listened.
When I heard the words, “I’m just not ready,” I knew holding on would cut me once more. I had finally learned from this phrase repeated.
“I have scars from those words, from others equally unprepared, I do not need another. I hear you and must choose goodbye.”