It's been three months since the last time I talked to you, a little longer since the last time I saw you.
In the past few months, a lot has changed. Time has passed, it never stops, not even for you, not even for me. Sometimes I want to sit down and make a list of the people I have had sex with since you left me behind. Sometimes I count them on my hands, and sometimes I feel proud. It makes me feel good, to think of pushing you out of my system, of holding on to the things you taught me that I liked, of using them in this way, against you. Sometimes I think of the ways I have changed, of how I feel sorry for my past self, of how desperately I loved you, of how strongly I felt about having you around me. Sometimes I think of how I haven't changed at all, of how sometimes I look for you on social media, of how I feel happy for you when I see you doing things you talked about.
It feels like lately I've been giving out pieces of myself in a very different way than I did with you. With you, I allowed myself to be vulnerable; I allowed myself to want without limits. I allowed myself to fall without looking, I allowed myself to believe you were perfect. I feel stronger, now, more focused, more aligned with my own happiness, but in a strange way, I long to be prioritized, to feel the deep emotional dependence of allowing another person in. And of having that person open themselves up to you, to have a sort of mutual existence, a solidarity.
Do you look at me, at the traces of existence I have left in your life, and think about how much I have changed, how much you don't recognize me? Do you ever count on your hands the number of bodies that have been between yours and mine, since the last time? Do you desperately want to know what I'm doing? Not because you want to be doing better, more stable, happier, but because you aren't used to being forced to give up people, that someone you opened yourself up to so wholly shouldn't disappear with so little a trace.
I'm not afraid to have sex with strangers anymore. Or at least, not so afraid. I'm not afraid to admit attraction, am trying (and in many ways succeeding in) to separate sex from vulnerability, to align my happiness with what I do in my everyday life, with the conversations I have, with what I contribute to the world. But sometimes I do get tired. I get tired of being sexualized, of having the same interactions with different people, of answering the same questions. I won't say that I've been alone, that I've been neglected people who care about me, that people only want me as a physical being, because that simply isn't true. But I remember now what I hated about being single: the friendships that dissolve barriers I never wanted to be broken, the constant objections to my freedom, the confidence, the ignorance, the empty compliments. Not being sure what to believe, or from whom.
Yes, it feels nice to be told that I am beautiful, to feel physically desired, to have someone express interest in the most basic of ways. But sometimes these things only make me feel more lonely. When desire doesn't extend to convincing a person to stick around despite their flaws or my own, it feels cheap, feels empty. I don't need anyone. I don't want to need anyone. I don't ever want to feel the hurt of losing someone the way that it hurt to lose you, again.
I don't know. I miss you. I don't miss the me that I was when I was with you.
In the past few months, a lot has changed. Time has passed, it never stops, not even for you, not even for me. Sometimes I want to sit down and make a list of the people I have had sex with since you left me behind. Sometimes I count them on my hands, and sometimes I feel proud. It makes me feel good, to think of pushing you out of my system, of holding on to the things you taught me that I liked, of using them in this way, against you. Sometimes I think of the ways I have changed, of how I feel sorry for my past self, of how desperately I loved you, of how strongly I felt about having you around me. Sometimes I think of how I haven't changed at all, of how sometimes I look for you on social media, of how I feel happy for you when I see you doing things you talked about.
It feels like lately I've been giving out pieces of myself in a very different way than I did with you. With you, I allowed myself to be vulnerable; I allowed myself to want without limits. I allowed myself to fall without looking, I allowed myself to believe you were perfect. I feel stronger, now, more focused, more aligned with my own happiness, but in a strange way, I long to be prioritized, to feel the deep emotional dependence of allowing another person in. And of having that person open themselves up to you, to have a sort of mutual existence, a solidarity.
Do you look at me, at the traces of existence I have left in your life, and think about how much I have changed, how much you don't recognize me? Do you ever count on your hands the number of bodies that have been between yours and mine, since the last time? Do you desperately want to know what I'm doing? Not because you want to be doing better, more stable, happier, but because you aren't used to being forced to give up people, that someone you opened yourself up to so wholly shouldn't disappear with so little a trace.
I'm not afraid to have sex with strangers anymore. Or at least, not so afraid. I'm not afraid to admit attraction, am trying (and in many ways succeeding in) to separate sex from vulnerability, to align my happiness with what I do in my everyday life, with the conversations I have, with what I contribute to the world. But sometimes I do get tired. I get tired of being sexualized, of having the same interactions with different people, of answering the same questions. I won't say that I've been alone, that I've been neglected people who care about me, that people only want me as a physical being, because that simply isn't true. But I remember now what I hated about being single: the friendships that dissolve barriers I never wanted to be broken, the constant objections to my freedom, the confidence, the ignorance, the empty compliments. Not being sure what to believe, or from whom.
Yes, it feels nice to be told that I am beautiful, to feel physically desired, to have someone express interest in the most basic of ways. But sometimes these things only make me feel more lonely. When desire doesn't extend to convincing a person to stick around despite their flaws or my own, it feels cheap, feels empty. I don't need anyone. I don't want to need anyone. I don't ever want to feel the hurt of losing someone the way that it hurt to lose you, again.
I don't know. I miss you. I don't miss the me that I was when I was with you.
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