Fragments of Cassandra

I think what hurts the most; is that I used to love this.

I used to love the attention.
The passion.
The feeling of being wanted.

Back when I thought being desired
meant being loved.

Back when I couldn’t tell the difference.

But somewhere along the way,
the conversations stopped feeling like conversations.

I could tell you about my day.
My fears.
The things keeping me awake at night.

And somehow we’d always end up back in the same place.

Sometimes it feels like you don’t want to know me.

Just the version of me you can touch.

And I don’t think you mean to do that.

I don’t think you wake up every morning
wondering how to make me feel small.

But intentions don’t always change outcomes.

Because when I tell you I need sleep,
I feel guilty.

When I tell you not right now,
I feel guilty.

When I draw a boundary,
I feel guilty.

And somewhere along the way,
I started realizing how often my comfort
becomes negotiable;
the moment it conflicts with your desires.

You tell me you’re not ready for a relationship.

That you need to work on yourself.
That you’re not the man you want to be yet.

And maybe that’s true.

But what breaks my heart;
is that you’re not ready for a relationship,
yet you’re ready for everything that comes with one.

The affection.
The intimacy.
The emotional support.
The comfort of knowing I’ll answer when you call.

You want access to me.
You just don’t want to choose me.

And maybe that’s the wound beneath all the others.

Because this isn’t new.
It’s just familiar.

The truth is,
I don’t know if I’ve ever been loved.

Desired?
Absolutely.

Wanted?
Constantly.

But loved?
I don’t know.

Because all my life,
people have looked at me with hunger
and called it affection.

They’ve wanted my attention.
My body.
My softness.
My availability.

But very few have wanted the responsibility
that comes with truly loving someone.

And after a while,
you stop knowing the difference.

You start mistaking pursuit for devotion.
Chemistry for commitment.
Lust for love.

Because when lust is all you’ve ever been given,
it starts to look an awful lot like love.

Maybe that’s why I stayed.

Maybe every time someone wanted me,
I convinced myself;
they were finally choosing me.

Maybe every time someone reached for my body,
I hoped they were reaching for my heart too.

And every time,
I was wrong.

The cruel part is that I love you.
God, I love you.

Enough to want your happiness
even when it costs me my own.

Enough to keep making excuses
for things that hurt.

Enough to abandon myself
so you never feel abandoned.

But I am getting tired.

Tired of being understanding.
Tired of being patient.
Tired of being everything someone wants;
until it is time to call me theirs.

I stopped feeling like a prize
and started feeling like a fantasy.

The fantasy is exciting.
The fantasy is chased.
The fantasy is desired.
But the fantasy is never kept.

And I am exhausted from being admired
by people who have no intention of choosing me.

Exhausted from being someone’s favorite possibility;
while never becoming their certainty.

I think that’s why I’ve been pulling away.

Not because I love you less.

Because I finally understand-
that love should not feel like constantly auditioning for a role you’ve already been playing.

And maybe the saddest part is this:

I don’t think you’re lying to me.
I think you care.
I think you’re sincere.
I think you mean every word when you say you’re trying.

But sincerity does not change reality.

And reality is that I keep offering my heart
to people who only have room for my body.

And every time it happens, 
I walk away wondering;

“what is so wrong with me that people keep wanting all of me - except forever.”



Be’ahava,
Cassandra