you never let anyone see you.

not really.

you smile like a mask,

touch like you’re flinching,

love like it’s a secret

you’re ashamed to admit.

i break in ways you can’t understand.

loud, messy, always spilling over.

i cry too fast,

love too hard,

and wait for you to leave

before you’ve even walked away.

we made her.

four months old.

our little girl,

soft and perfect and innocent

to all the quiet violence

between her parents.

you feel like you’re suffocating.

i feel like i’m screaming into an empty room.

you walk on eggshells around me.

i shatter them just to feel something real.

sometimes you say nothing

when i need everything.

sometimes i need everything

and it scares you into nothing.

you say you love me.

and i believe you.

but it doesn’t stop the ache

when you pull away

like my touch burns.

when your silence

feels louder than any goodbye.

i love you so much

it hurts to breathe.

but love with me

comes with sharp edges.

i know that.

i wish you did too.

you love me

but it drains you.

you love me

but some part of you

is always halfway out the door,

holding your breath,

wishing i’d just stop needing you so much.

but this is who i am.

raw, broken, bleeding need.

and this is who you are.

guarded, quiet, running in place.

we keep breaking each other

just trying to be close.

keep trying to love

like we aren’t terrified of what comes next.

our baby sleeps in the other room.

and sometimes i wonder

if we’re already gone

just too scared to say it out loud.

but then you hold her.

and your eyes soften.

and i remember

why i chose you.

why i keep choosing you.

even when it hurts.

even when it’s killing me.

because i see the boy inside the man

who never got to feel safe.

and maybe you see the girl in me

who was always left behind.

we are pain and love

woven so tight

we don’t know which is which anymore.

but i still hope

you’ll stay.

not because of her.

not out of fear.

but because somewhere in all this hurt—

you still want me.