Insecurities, trauma. Hope you love my suitcase of it, my fears neatly stacked. My dreams are in the outer pocket. I always take my suitcase with me, but sometimes the I get rid of something for another. Forever ago, it was filled to the brim with mental health issues. I finally cleaned it out.
Believe me, I love me. I don't doubt my self-love, I don't doubt my strength. But my past is simply something I will always carry with me. However, my past is not something that many see. My suitcase is silver with two silver locks. Nobody else knows the password but me.
There was one time when three girls saw the inside of my suitcase. They saw the baggage that I own, and they told me that they loved me anyway. My outer pocket grew a little bit bigger, filled with hope and happiness. It seemed to make the suitcase a little lighter, even. As if I was spreading out some of the insides to even it out.
Days passed. I was truly happy.
Then two of the girls told everyone. Exploited what was mine. My suitcase is nobody else's. One of those girls told me why they did it. They hid their feelings, they didn't tell me that they really did have a problem with me. Even if the problem was in the past, not the present. They said that they never really did love me. Or at least, they did before they really knew me.
One day, I want someone to love me. All of me. I want someone to see my suitcase, my luggage, my past, and love me anyway. I hope that person is out there. I haven't met them yet, it could be very many years.
The person who will love me anyway.
YOU ARE READING
Quiver
Poetrya place where I've written my feelings when I felt them. it has become a story of depression and recovery, love and loss, hope and fear, and everything in-between. mostly poetry, sometimes stories. :)
