You were ashamed of me.
I was too much truck bed and not enough church pew. Wings too broken, halo missing for too long. I fit too much into the real you and not enough into what you wanted to become. Too much right then and not enough down the road.
I wasn’t the easy way out.
I was quiet smiles, missing you even before we said goodnight. I was laughing, cheeks hurting from smiling so hard, at dinners with your family. I was the quiet and steady understanding when you needed a companion heartbeat to be alone with.
You couldn’t keep up.
I loved all of your edges, every break that had healed just a little bit crooked. I adored your hushed whisper in my ear when I could get it. I waited. I was patient. Too many work days, not enough starry nights. Too much responsibility and never enough summertime.
We can’t get it back.
Nothing with you was ever wasted, no matter how long I take to heal. I have to remember that you were never as perfect as I made you out to be. You were too much insecurity, not enough acceptance. Too many rigid expectations and nowhere close to enough transparency.
I’ll never be that girl.
I’m too much “fuck you” and not enough “God bless.” Too many similarities and not enough superiority. Too much room to grow and not enough evidence of it. I’ll never be the one whose first thought is always Jesus and who never sleeps in on a Sunday morning. That’s not me. It’s not really you either.
We were just beautifully mismatched.
And I wish you hadn’t been ashamed of me. I wish you’d shown me off to someone other than your family. I wish a few more people had seen the way you could make me light up from the inside out. I wish I knew that you still thought of me, and that you think of me as too much and not too little. Because I’m going to outgrow you someday, even if it kills me.