I Wonder If It’s You

The short articles I’ve read of men apologizing for being confused, not being able to love enough, and then breaking a girl’s heart – I wonder if it’s you. Part of me hopes that it is. That you’re reading my articles and poems. That you’re finally getting it. That you’re recognizing my style, like I’m recognizing yours. That this is your way of apologizing, letting me know that you’re sorry. Finally validating my feelings through all this. That in your own twisted way, you still care. That you always did. That I’m not the reason that you’re broken, like you tried convincing me that I was. That you finally get that I wasn’t broken, till you broke me. How unfair it is that you shattered my heart, and left me to pick up the pieces. How you needed to break me to realize how broken you are. I wonder if it’s you.

Part of me hopes that it isn’t. Because I don’t want you to know what you’ve done. To know about the PTSD-like symptoms that I’m having because of the relationship trauma. I don’t want you to get some kind of sick satisfaction out of seeing me like this. You told me when we were together how you feel closest to me when you see me broken. We’re not together anymore, so I don’t want you to feel close to me, or see me broken. Because I’m not. Despite the triggers here and the weak moments there, I’ve gotten my life back together. I know my strengths, and I know my weaknesses, and I’m okay with them. I always was. But now, my strengths are stronger than before, because you aren’t around to bash them. I never needed your words of validation to see my own self-worth. But I can’t help but wonder – when I read these posts of men apologizing – I wonder if it’s you.

Part of me hopes that it isn’t. Because as much as I’d feel relief if it was, I hope others are getting their feelings validated as well. I hope other broken hearts are being mended. I hope other women are waking up and seeing the boys they dated for what they are – children trapped in men’s bodies, who just want to be nurtured and loved, but don’t know how to reciprocate, how to treat someone as an equal. They want to be the viewed as the protector and provider, but also want you to be their therapist, their nurse, and their mother.

I know you’re not here with me, that you never will be. That you never really were. That I never really knew the real you, and you never really knew me, either. But wherever you are, and whoever you are, I feel validated, because I know it’s someone like you. Maybe it’s you. I’ll never know for certain, but I can hope that it is. Or that it isn’t. I’d honestly rather not know. I just feel comforted knowing that I can wonder if it’s you.

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