Learning to Keep
I’m teaching myself to hoard small things—
the book I’m reading stays unnamed,
the café where I write remains a secret,
the song that makes me cry lives only in my headphones.
•
For the first time in years,
I’m keeping pieces of myself
locked away from you,
and it feels
like learning
to breathe underwater.
•
Distance tastes like freedom
and terror
in equal measure.
Three days without texting you
feels like rebellion,
like I’m committing
some quiet crime
against the person
I used to be—
the one
who told you everything.
•
I catch myself
starting to share,
then stopping mid-sentence,
my hand hovering
over your name
in my contacts
like it’s on fire.
•
What if you take this too?
What if my new haircut
becomes your inspiration?
What if my therapy breakthrough
becomes your social media wisdom?
•
I’m building walls now,
not to keep you out completely,
but to keep me in—
to protect
the tender shoots
of who I’m trying to become.
•
My journal stays hidden.
My plans stay whispered
to the mirror
instead of you.
I’m creating sacred spaces
where your voice
can’t follow.
•
Some days
the guilt is crushing.
Who am I
to withhold myself
from someone
who “cares” so much?
But I’m learning
that caring
without respect
for boundaries
isn’t caring at all.
•
I’m practicing saying,
“I’d rather not talk about it,”
and letting the silence stretch
until it feels normal,
until my privacy
feels like a right
instead of a betrayal.
•
Slowly,
carefully,
I’m excavating myself
from the cave-in of us,
dusting off pieces
of my identity
that I thought
were buried forever.
•
My interests
are mine again.
My pain
is mine to process.
My joy
is mine to feel
without wondering
how you’ll make it
about you.
•
The space between us
is becoming sacred ground
where I plant seeds
of the person I was
before I became your mirror.
And for the first time
in longer than I can remember,
I’m excited
to see what grows
in the silence.
What blooms
when it’s just me
tending to myself.