Sometimes, he would hurt me.
Sometimes, I would like it.
Most times, I didn’t.
And when he would hold me,
it was because he wanted me held captive,
not because he cared.

When I cry, my tears are shed for the younger me, who had hands in between her legs that didn’t belong there;
who was forced to trade in her childhood for adolescence,
who then became an adult long before she turned 18.

I don’t want you to wipe my slate clean (in case you were wondering),
because you can’t.
But I was hoping that I could start a new one with you.
I could give you the love that you’ve been craving,
and you could render the kind that I’ve never received.

Can you do that?
Can you hold all of my broken pieces,
careful not to mix them with your own?
Can you cradle my heart without cutting your hands?
Can you carry me when my feet are dragging so heavily,
that they begin to slow yours down too?

We understand each other in ways that our former never could;
we adore the parts of ourselves that they didn’t want.
Now, we’re presented with an opportunity to become the type of people we’ve spent months writing about;
the kind we never had.

So, what do you say?
Would you like to meet halfway?
We deserve a “forever” too.
I can’t make you whole,
but I’ll vow to make you better.
Just promise that by the time our ending arrives,
you will have done the same for me.

Poet: Stefanie Parrott


3 thoughts on “Halfway

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