Two Lies and a Truth

1. I want to be with you.

Those are the words I was always too afraid to say to you. I thought, if they were to be spoken, in the way I would have more than likely spoken them (rushed and clumsy with little to no eye contact), then they would have lit like the tip of a Molotov cocktail and blown our entire dynamic to pieces.

2. I want to be with me.

The mantra I recite in my head every morning before I drag my still lifeless form from my nightly grave. The real reason, I always told myself, that I refused to utter the former statement. As a woman of the 21st century, it would be a waste of a Black female body to shackle it to the same dead stone I would have been fated to in any century prior.

3. I don’t know how to be with anyone.

If the other two were half lies, this was the full truth. I don’t understand what it means to have somebody outside of myself and feel, with unconflicted conviction, that I have every right to reach out and grab that hand and mold it with my own. That it’s alright to fix my mouth to call out your name and expect you to turn, face absent of exasperation or annoyance, and look at me with that quiet, insistent knowledge that your name on my lips is poetry to your hungry ears.

I just ask that you forgive me for being so insecure in my belief that I can be loved. I never meant for it to act as red herring to my unfaltering belief that I could love you in every way I could never imagine you would want to love me in return.


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