Marilyn Monroe once said,

"To love someone is madness,

to be loved by someone is a gift,

loving someone who loves you is a duty,

but being loved by someone whom you love is a beautiful life."

 

Well... Where's my beautiful life?

Where's the man I'm supposed to love?

Where's the man that supposed to love me?

Some say, "Don't worry about it, he'll come."

Other say, "You're too young to worry about love."

But... Love is something that I've wanted my whole life,

even in the stomach of my young mother I wanted love.

 

I look back on my young teenage years,

"The Dark Years",

some darker for most than others,

some not dark at all.

But mine were the darkest and I needed love to be my light.

 

You see when I was young,

my mother left to make a better life for us,

for me.

I remember her holding me tightly and telling me she loved me before she had gone.

"But mommy if you love me,

why are you leaving?

You just don't leave someone that you love, you just don't!"

But from then on, that was my definition of love.

A man walks into my life,

my hero, my main man, my step dad.

Like every bad stepfather, stepchild relationship,

mine seemed to be the same.

"You can't do anything right!

You're a worthless little bitch!

I hate you!

I hate you!

I hate you!

Don't cry, I love you..."

 

Is this love?

 

Wanting a father figure in my life,

I let the hateful words drift away from my mind into the wind of silence,

but they just kept coming back and gnawing at my heart,

like the teeth of a shark, ripping away at the flesh of its meal.

 

But this is love, right?

 

Soon the words become the little life I have left in me,

"You're nothing but trash!

I wish you’d just die!

Hit, smack,

hit, smack,

hit, smack!

Do not cry, I love you..."

 

The words are a riptide dragging me out to drown

in a sea of darkness, death, pity, nothingness.

And death seems appealing,

the height of bridges, not fearing me.

The luster of razors, not making me cringe.

Pill bottles screaming, "Imani, we love you!"

And suicide would be okay, right?

 

Then one night, I had a dream.

I had a dream that I was in a beautiful home,

with three beautiful kids running around,

having the looks of myself and a man who walks in the door and says,

"Baby, I'm home."

He then kisses my forehead

and looks me in my eyes and says,

"I love you."

 

Although it was a dream,

I wanted it to become a reality.

The abuser leaves,

my family moves,

therapy begins,

and I find myself with a fresh start,

a new chance to really love myself.

 

Because one day,

I want to find that man that tells me he loves me,

kids that say, "Mommy, we love you!"

Family and friends that say, "We love you!"

The time where I can say,

"I love me."

 

Now that,

is a life worth waiting for,

that is a beautiful life.