finding my voice after love silenced it

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i came home that morning
hoping to catch you still in my bed.
i couldn’t wait to climb in behind you
curl my body next to yours
& nuzzle my face into the space between
your shoulder blades.
but what i came home to was nothing
like what i had imagined.
i came home to a bed perfectly made
shower curtain drawn open with your towel
folded on the toilet seat.
i must have just missed you because
there were water droplets
still on the shower walls.
a pan with the remnants of eggs sat on the stove
& a half glass of orange juice with a condensation ring around it was left on the counter.
i turned to get my phone from my purse
to call you
when something on the table caught my eye.
there were two post it notes side by side
& a pen not too far from where they stuck to the wood.
they read:
“D, I realized that I loved you to much to lie to you or go backwards & disappoint you but I know it’s not enough to move to another space.”
along side of the notes were my house keys, all 3 of them.
i stood back for a second, just looking at the note & my keys & then, i surprised myself with the laugh that erupted deep from within my stomach.
the least you could have done in your attempt at a dramatic exit was know the difference between to & too.
a few minutes went by & the reality of the situation started to become clear & anger started to rise from the beds of my toe nails.
i was not mad nor upset that you were ending it for now the 5th time in 6 years.
i held a funeral for us for long before this note was left however what i had not prepared for
was the amount of disrespect you exhibited.
not only did you come into my home when i was not there
with intentions of breaking things off
but did you sleep a full night in my bed,
washed yourself in my shower,
made yourself breakfast with my food,
& then left me a bullshit fucking note on my favorite colored post it notes
as if i was some chick you had just met
in a club the night before.
6 years of history left
on two purple post it notes
left for me to read when i
returned to my safe haven
hoping to climb into a bed
that was still holding you.
i’ve told you i hated you before,
all times i never meant
when frustration took over my vocal cords
however this time, i deeply mean it.
i can’t stand your selfish, ignorant, entitled ass
& every time i think about the years i invested
the love i extended,
the loyalty i lived
& the body i devoted to you
i feel sick to my core.
you’ve always loved the control you had over me
& your ability to come & go as you please
& i would let you because i genuinely adored the ground you walked on.
you flaunted your control up until the day you left
& for the rest of my days i won’t remember you
as the man i loved for 6 long years
but as the purple post it note bitch who didn’t have enough respect
to say what he had to say to my face.
when i told you i wouldn’t mind inviting a female into our life,
i didn’t mean for you to become her.


i had no intention of ever sharing this poem or this picture with anyone. i remember when i took the picture thinking that it will be a great source of inspiration one day but i never thought i would actually be sharing it for others to see. so why now? why have i finally decided to show this experience i lived? 

why not?  being the heavily guarded person that i am, showing any ounce of vulnerability is an extremely difficult thing for me. the more i write and the more i share my words with others, i am slowing starting to feel more comfortable sharing moments in my life that i otherwise rarely speak on. i say this all the time but i truly mean it - i am a terrible communicator. you would think someone who writes more than she does anything else would be great at talking and expressing her feelings but NO - she's definetly not. when i know one of my vulnerabilities can be exposed, i immediately shut down from communicating (effectively at least) and also my thoughts. i deny them, i push them to the side, or i ignore them. which is never a good idea because they do come out eventually - usually in a fit of rage over something that had nothing to do with the creation of them. 

it's hard for me to talk about things that have hurt me, wronged me, betrayed me, disappointed me, or left me but it comes naturally for me to write about them. honestly, it's easy for me to write about them - far easier than what it's like when trying to write something positive or happy. when i finally release my thoughts onto paper, that is my moment to gain closure. that is my time to heal myself and find understanding. writing for me is far more than poetry and the pursuit of likes and recognition on social media. writing is my voice. 

throughout my twenties and especially the last 5 years of  them, i didn't have a voice and the sound that came from my lips was simply that - a sound. it was not mine. it did not come from my soul, from my spirit, from my heart, or my thoughts. it came from the desperation to feel connected and loved by a man. it came from wanting what i saw in movies, TV shows, heard about in songs, or saw on social media. it came from wanting what i didn't know how to handle by people who knew it but continued on with the game anyway. it was not my ex's final exit that made me realize i had a voice and it had something strong to say but the one prior to. had we not split when we did back then, i don't know if i ever would have found my way back to writing. i would probably be still suppressing it, ignoring it, or not allowing myself to settle into my thoughts and emotions enough to be able to express them. so when he came back the last time i had already become a completely different person due to falling back into the only thing that's ever been able to catch me. i was not that girl desperate for a man's attention anymore but now a woman, fully capable of loving herself in the places no one would ever be able to reach. And she was ready. Ready to use her voice with or without a muse. 

i did not shed one tear the day these notes were left. i did not sit by the phone waiting for him to call. i didn't listen for his car in my driveway. i didn't pray to God's i don't believe in to have him back. i did the thing i know best - i wrote. i gained my closure that day in a black and white stripped notebook and when my hand was cramped to the point it hurt to let go of my pen, i knew it was finally over. that chapter of my life was over and instead of mourning the past, i looked forward to my future, one that would never know of his existence. 

whether it be a question of why now or why not, the answer is the same - because I've found my voice. my genuine, non-verbal, purposeful voice and it's not going anywhere. my voice is strong. it is unapologetic and unashamed. it is not burdened by regret or resentment. it is not fearful of who comes or who goes. it is a force to be reckon with and it will not be silenced. not by my self and never again by someone who cannot recognize the sound of their own.

 

love & light,

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