I wasn’t good at being alone
with the thoughts of my inability to be cherished
    treasured
  loved,
without his callused hands drawing out shapes on my bare back at two in the morning
after I knocked on his apartment door in tears for the third time this week.
I wasn’t good at fighting off the level of darkness that took over after the sun sunk down
below the top of the trees across the field from our favorite walking trail or when the cool breeze was flooding into the room from the crack in the window
that happened the night we drank too much ***** last July.
I wasn’t good at remembering
to double check and make sure the front door was locked
because you were always the one to turn off the lights and walk up those creaking stairs after me
while I waited curled up in your tshirt
anticipating the warmth your body would bring me.
I wasn’t good at being patient
while I waited for you to get home from going out
after telling me all about it but not inviting me to come along
because I didn’t fit in to your world.
I wasn’t good at speaking my mind
because last time I did I ended up wearing long sleeves when we went to the rope swing too afraid to take it off and expose the sensitive, colored skin underneath.
I wasn’t good at sleeping by myself
because the summer heat clung to my bedroom
and I couldn’t use the blankets to protect me from the monsters
I convinced myself would get me in my sleep
if I didn’t have the cotton fabric protecting me.
I wasn’t good at knowing when to take a hint
that I would never be more than a screenshot in your life
nothing more than a moment in time.
I should have known,
but then again, I guess I’m just now admitting
I was never any good at being alone.