mirror pain

This comes from a place where I’m hurt and it keeps hurting. Old wounds, fresh ones, the ones that never quite close. They all bleed to the same… 

I want to be loved. I want to be seen. And I tell myself you’re there, that you love me, that you see me. At least, that’s what I want to believe.

But it’s not how I feel. Sometimes. Not really. Is the shadows and the pain screaming through the echoes of an “empty” person.

I know I’m loved. I see the small gestures, I feel them in the moment, and I’m grateful. But the routine, the problems … they pull me under. I get lost in my own chaos, my own numbness, always chasing adrenaline because stillness feels like death. I know I’m a mess. I know I’m not easy. Yet you stay. You show me love. That’s why I say I know you love me.

But do you really see me?

Because most days I feel invisible, and that’s a wound older than you. Every time I opened up as a child, I just wanted to be seen, to be touched, to be felt. And sometimes I slip back into that hurt version of myself, the one that still waits for someone to reach through the fog.

You hear me, but you don’t always see me. And that’s what cuts the deepest.

I appreciate the words, the comments, the gestures. They make me happy, they remind me of who I am to you. But sometimes it’s not enough. Sometimes I need something more, another kind of reassurance. Maybe it’s selfish, but I feel alone most of the time.

I know you’re cold. You like your space. I accept that. But there are moments when that space feels like an ocean and I keep drowning in it, waiting for you to throw me a rope.

It’s the small things, the tiny words, the little silences … they pierce me. Because I’m still here, standing, watching, waiting for you to reach out. And I keep waiting.