The Love I Didn’t Know I Was Searching For Was My Own

Becoming is its own kind of myth.

“She was never the girl in the woods. She was the woman who learned to walk out of them.”

I grew up believing the story ended when the prince arrived.
That love was salvation, and I was the one to be rescued.
But now I know the myth was never about him.
It was about the girl who survived the fire
and learned how to carry its heat inside her.

I was not lost.
I was being forged.
And every heartbreak,
every silence, every false promise,
was the hammer that forged me.

I’ve mistaken ache for connection.
I’ve called longing love.
I’ve lit candles for men who never saw my flame.
But no more.

I no longer write poems for the ones who couldn't stay.
I write for the girl who waited.
For the woman I’ve become,
the one who didn’t unravel,
the one who danced barefoot through the wreckage
and called it art.

My heart still wants love.
But not the kind that demands I disappear to receive it.
I want the love that witnesses.
The kind that arrives with hands open, not closed fists.
The kind that says, “I won’t complete you. I will walk beside you.”

I am still becoming.
I am the woman who learned to rise.
I am the love I thought I needed.

By Eve

This work is protected, not to preserve myth, but to honor the voice that now claims it.
Because even forgotten heroines deserve to rise in ink.
© 2025 Notesformysoulmate. All rights reserved.

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