Losing you didn’t hurt as much as losing myself.

I never really knew who I was before we met.
I’m still not sure now.

The worst part is,
you didn’t know who you were either.

I spent years pouring love into you,
hoping you’d find yourself,
hoping you’d find love for you—
and I forgot to leave any for me.

I was chasing a world to make you happy,
leaving myself with a little less
every time you pushed me away.

When we last spoke, you told me
I’d made you proud of who you’d become—
a painful reminder
that I still don’t know who I am.

I didn’t leave myself the space to find out,
and it hurts so much
that I was left so broken,
while you were left built up.

I regret losing myself trying to teach you
how to love yourself.

I don’t want to feel like that.
I want to be grateful, to be proud,
that I helped build someone up,
that I taught someone to love themselves.

But losing you didn’t hurt as much as losing myself—
or maybe, as never finding me.