You don't know it yet, but you might save my life.
You are taller than I am and your hands are long so that they fold over mine. Your
mouth is full and real and made for smiling and your eyes are sharp because you see
and kind because you pretend not to.
Sometimes, when I'm walking down the street, I see somebody in a crisp dress uniform
or carefully groomed fatigues and my stomach bottoms out. I want to cry, but I don't,
because I swear to God nobody will ever see me cry ever again.
scent of you drifts over your sensible shoulders and everything that was spiraling
away will spin back into place
In the ugly, scarred parts of me, the parts that I don't like to show anybody,
there'll be a sliver of coal-black disbelief. You're going to leave me, too. You will.
You'll walk away and you'll never look back, just like she did. And I'll be alone
again and more broken than before and I can't.
I'm afraid of you.
You are patient and kind and perfectly gentle in the way you handle my bruises with
such care. I think I feel safe with you. But I haven't felt safe since she left and
you make things so different. I'm afraid to be so happy, so I'm afraid to be with you.
I don't think I know who I am without all of my bottled-up hurt.
One day, you'll lean down to kiss me and I'll begin to cry.
I'll love you more in that moment than I've ever loved anybody.
I'm tired of being alone.