Before you ever trace your fingers down the inside of my truth, you need to know what I’m leaving behind.
I’ve loved before, but not like I want to love now.
I’ve performed affection with the precision of a surgeon. I’ve said “I’m fine” because it kept things easier. I’ve watered down my needs so I wouldn’t feel like a burden. I’ve stayed silent in the moments I should’ve screamed.
I’m not proud of any of it. But I understand it now.
And I’m unlearning all of it for you.
I’m unlearning the way I used to disappear when I felt misunderstood. I’m unlearning the lie that needing you means losing myself. I’m unlearning the fear that telling the truth will make you leave.
Because the truth is what I want now. Not just your truth—ours.
I don’t want the version of love that’s built on shared hobbies and tolerable flaws. I want the kind that wakes you up. The kind that sees everything—the grief, the shame, the power, the softness—and chooses it anyway.
So if and when you find me, I want you to know: I’ve done the work to arrive honest.
And I will not love you in the shadows of my old silence.
I will meet you in the light of my unlearning.