What’s another scar.

Is being alone for the rest of my life the worst thing? Should I stress about it? I shouldn’t, truly. But I do. Throughout the years I’ve had small tastes of compassion and love. I’ve been held, but never for a long time. Never long enough. I’ve been kissed and finally felt butterflies after years of them being absent. And these small tastes have left me wanting more…so much more. What is a life without these things? Without someone to wake up next to. Without someone to share everything with, including myself. What is life without hugs and passion, and cuddles and the warmth of another’s hand in yours?

I didn’t beg him to stay in my life. I didn’t have to. He wanted me in his still, so that he wouldn’t be the bad guy. The bad guy for taking advantage of my kindness. You see, he didn’t see himself in a healthy way. And the way others saw him was more important to him than the way he saw himself. And so he would strive not to be the bad guy. Unfortunately for him I know my worth. Never will I allow a man to string me along to feel better about himself. To boost his confidence. I know what I want. I know what I’m worth. You either want me and put in the effort, or you don’t. It’s simple.

That still doesn’t mean my hearts not broken. It doesn’t mean that I don’t randomly stop what I’m doing sometimes and think back to a painful memory of what it felt like to be held by him. How it felt to hold his hand, or that first kiss. Or the 100th kiss. Laying in bed laughing together and feeling like I’d never want to be anywhere else. And I sigh, and I move on and with each time this happens I feel further and further away from it.

But it still hurts. It’s still painful. But what’s another scar on my heart? Smaller than the others but visible all the same.

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