I am not the kind of girl

you bring home to your mother.

I’m the kind you drag into your bed

to forget someone else—

and then can’t forget.

I am sharp edges wrapped in velvet.

I am the echo of every woman

who never got a soft ending.

I love him like a drowning thing

loves the hand that pulls it under.

I begged for his breath

even while I held mine,

waiting to be left again.

Because that’s what they do.

They always leave.

Or worse—

they stay and stop loving.

He doesn’t see it,

but I flinch every time he sighs.

I overanalyze the silence.

I crumble under the weight

of “I’m just tired.”

I start fires

just to see if he’ll run.

He holds my broken parts

like they’re something holy,

but I keep cutting him with them.

It’s not fair.

But neither is love.

And still,

he stays.

He stays

when I call him a liar.

When I accuse him

of wanting anyone but me.

When I beg for his touch

then pull away

like it burns.

(It does.

God, it does.)

There are parts of me

I’ve buried in other men—

in dark rooms

and back seats

and whispered names

I didn’t mean.

He knows this.

He knows,

and still he says

he wants all of me.

Even the unlovable things.

But what if I give him everything

and he sees me—

really sees me—

and leaves anyway?

What if the thing

I’m most afraid of

is not that he’ll hurt me…

…but that he won’t?

Because then I’d have to believe

I’m worth staying for.

And I don’t know

if I can.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

But God,

I want to.