I wanted to tell you why I let you go from my life. But the truth is that I couldn’t bring myself to do it. Perhaps it’s because you and I were never able to handle each other’s truths. Honesty was never encouraged between us. So one day I chose to let you go. I chose to remain quiet and live my pain silently.
I would have liked to tell you my truth. I want to tell you that I believed you when you told me that I was beautiful. I trusted you when you said that I was special. I even allowed myself to get excited when you lead me to trust that this time around things would be different.
Then you took my body. Several times. For your own fantasy. For your own pleasure. You came loudly, strongly, all over my body. You held me against you. You were seeking comfort as you were catching your breath. You kissed my sweaty forehead. You called me beautiful. We laid in silence, your warm body wrapped around mine. You caressed me in ways that I had craved to be touched for so long. Then I stayed naked on the bed, vulnerable to your eyes, as I watched you get dressed. You made me giggle and you smiled as you told me that you love the sound of my laughter. As you departed you kissed my lips and sealed them with hope.
You occupied my time. I was so desperate to be desired that I morphed myself into what pleased you. A woman-whore with dirty words. Because that’s what you love and that’s who you wanted me to be. And so I complied. But I could tell that you knew my truth. That, this wasn’t who I was. I heard it in the way you asked me questions or in the hesitation when you confessed your deepest fantasies. Why did I go along with it? I guess I was desperate to feel accepted by you.
And then there was that time when I knew things had changed. You made love to me in a hurry. The kindness you once had exhibited was gone. Your spoken words hurt my soul and you knew it. You took pleasure in saying them to me, took even more pleasure in seeing my reaction. You took my body in a way that I hated, for your sole pleasure, for your secret fantasies. Your goodbye kisses didn’t linger the way they used to. Your texts were cold and vulgar, like I was no longer worthy of your respect. When I called you out, you said it was in my head. You lead me to believe that no one would love me the way you do. I didn’t believe you. Yet, I let you do this to me over and over. That was your truth that I couldn’t face.
Until the day I couldn’t anymore. I had spent too many days crying over your treatment of me. And then that day I realized that I no longer cried tears of sadness. There were tears of exhaustion. I was tired of always feeling like I was the one who was doing something wrong.
I was too tired to confront you. The text was simple. I no longer wanted to have contact with you. I don’t know what you replied. I never read your texts. Deep down, I knew you would never honor my truth. So I simply chose to move on. Silently.
The tears have dried now. But they have left me feeling bitter and hopeless. For a long time, I was afraid to admit that you may have won. I started to believe that I wouldn’t find my strength and allow another man to enter my mind, my heart, my body the way you have.
But I moved on, the way I usually do. A little bit burned, a little bit wounded, a little scared and hesitant. For a while I was ashamed of that woman in the mirror. My reflection kept reminding me of my naivete, my need to connect, that sacred yearning I have to be loved and accepted just the way I am. I fell too easily for your words. I was too quick to believe that you saw me, really saw me. But the truth is, you always looked past me. You were only interested in the perception you had on me, on my ability to fulfill your fantasies.
They say that there are no mistakes, only lessons to be learned. You were probably my toughest lesson to accept.