[i used to sit in the living room and wait for your door to open]
By Amanda Toye
i used to sit in the living room and wait for your door to open
on my tippy toes peering around the corner of the hallway
fingers crossed you would come out ok
knees bent over praying that tomorrow would be better.
it's too much to joke about the trauma, or wish it all away
so instead, i pretend it never happened. I pretend it hasn't driven me insane.
sweep it under the rug, lock the door, close the blinds, turn off the light, shut the windows. i force it to go away.
(or, at least i think i do.)
until you text me that you miss me, or until i remember that one conversation we had in June. i don't miss you back until i realize how badly i want to hear you say you're proud of me. and then i'd do anything to have you close. i'd do anything for you to know everything i've ever done and every person i've ever been—then still find the strength within yourself to look me in the eyes and tell me you love me—that you're proud of me.
i don't miss you, until i do. and once i do, that's all i know—my missing you.