A Small Life

I didn’t need diamonds, fancy dinners,

or flights to places with clear blue water.

I only wanted time—

attention I didn’t have to beg for

like spare change.

I texted too often,

looking for proof I existed

when I wasn’t right in front of him.

But he didn’t think of me then, either—

not when I was sitting beside him,

while he texted his "inner circle,"

requesting rsvp's

to a party I wouldn’t be invited to.

I won’t ask for flowers anymore.

If someone wants to, they will—

the way he did for her

on a second date

while we were “broken up.”

I will no longer accept less

than I need to be easier to love.

I won’t tolerate last-minute invites,

or long for a future never spoken aloud.

I will no longer bend to show I’m flexible.

Now, I stay home.

I live a small life.

I write.

I paint.

I read.

I sleep too much.

I’m not strong.

I’m not resilient.

I’m careful.

I’m guarded.

I’m afraid of trying.

I’m afraid of hoping.

I stay home.

I live a small life.

I can’t remember how not to cry.

I sleep through the hours

that used to be filled with hope.

I’m not strong.

I’m not resilient.

I’m careful.

I’m guarded.

I’m afraid of wanting.

I’m afraid of needing.

I stay home.

I live a small, quiet life

that doesn’t ask anyone

to choose me.

I sleep through the hours

I used to want for him.

I’m not strong.

I’m not resilient.

I’m careful.

I’m guarded.

I don’t trust my judgment.

I don’t trust my heart.

I stay home.

I live a quiet, simple life

that barely passes as living.

I sleep through the hours

I used to dream about love.

I’m not healed.

Maybe I never will be.

But I am done—

shrinking myself

to fit into someone’s neglect.

I sleep.

I sleep so damn much.