I keep expecting contact. A letter, an email, a text message. Some form of something. And it never comes.
I keep expecting some to see me as me and treat me as though I exist. I beginning to realise that it is only a very special few who will ever do this.
I keep expecting some to be as open and true with me as I am with them.
I keep expecting to matter. To count. To be more than an insignificant little bit of carbon. Easily dusted off and pushed past without even a second thought.
I keep expecting some to understand.
I keep expecting some to care. To not just believe whichever cardboard cutout version of me they have in their heads to hate.
And I am realising I am massively naive.
But I would rather be naive and hurt as much as I do and as often as I do, be hurt by those who should know better and damaged irreparably time and time again than to those that.
Because that is where all of my hope and faith and truth lies. In who I know I am. In the reasons I understand.
And in truth I am as special and worthy of love and respect and belief as any other person.
It’s just finding the ones that see this too that’s the hard part.