But I Can Only Wish
I wonder what it’s like to be loved on purpose, Not out of habit, not almost, not nervous. To be with a “him” who stays when I cry, Who doesn’t flinch when he looks me in the eye. But I wake up alone, rehearsing love that never arrives.
I wonder what it’s like to be someone’s choice, Not the quiet option, not background noise. To have friends who call just to hear my name, Who don’t disappear when I’m not okay. But silence answers first, and it always knows my voice.
I wonder what it’s like to have roots, not scars, A family that keeps me instead of my parts. A home that feels solid, walls that don’t ache, A place that doesn’t threaten to shatter and shake. But every room I enter feels temporary, like I am too.
I wonder what it’s like to try and not quit, To be good at something and actually admit That I deserve the win, the praise, the fight, That I’m not just surviving out of spite. But my hands drop everything before it has the chance to stay.
I wonder what it’s like to not mourn someone daily, To not carry their absence like something sacred and heavy. He was my best friend, my soulmate, my air, My before, my after, my everywhere.
I loved him so much I mistook it for home, And now every heartbeat reminds me he’s gone. They say he’s at peace, they say time will be kind, But I am buried with him, just left behind. And the world keeps moving like nothing holy was lost.
I wonder what it’s like to love how I look, To not wage a war every time I’m shook By mirrors, by silence, by someone else’s skin, By the cruel little voice that lives within. But my reflection keeps asking why I wasn’t enough.
I wonder what it’s like to be pretty and know it, To hear compliments and not internally throw up. To be touched by kindness and not feel fake, To not wait for love to decide to break. But praise slides off me like it’s meant for someone else.
I wonder what it’s like to hear “I’m proud of you” And not feel like it’s something I had to outdo. To believe I’m enough without having to prove, To stop begging the world for permission to move. But approval always feels borrowed, never mine to keep.
I wonder what it’s like to exist without wishing, To live instead of constantly missing. To stop fantasizing about who I could be…
But all I can do is wish and pretend, Wish for beginnings that never begin. Wish for a life where I finally stay, Instead of loving from worlds away.
Some lives are lived, and some are only imagined quietly. And mine mine is the second one.
So I wish. And I wish. And I wish.