Mistake

I do not belong in the first house that I ever bought. That I still own. The moments that I am there are always painful. By far the room that I dread walking into the most is my bedroom. On my dresser remains a stack of my books, lotions, CDs, photos. There are still a couple drawers of my belongings that I haven’t taken. He keeps clothes piled up on the side of the bed that I used to sleep.

I had notes that I wrote in my dresser. I see a page on top of the television. It’s the TV that I bought from a roommate before she moved away. I wonder why this piece of paper is there and I make the mistake of looking at it. It’s not one that I wrote.

It’s a love note that he wrote to her when she was here in this bedroom. At the same time that my children were here. All under one roof. In the house that is mine that I am not welcome in. And it hurts. But it doesn’t hurt for all the reasons that one might expect. Truthfully those feelings are there but I have faced them and I have moved on. I don’t want to live here with him. I don’t want him.

The reason it cuts through me is because this is not the man that I even knew. He never wrote love letters. I wasn’t worth it to him. The love that I always wanted, that I was never given, is here in my bedroom. This room was just never meant for me.