Ephemeral Heartache
How far must I go for love?
How much of myself must I erase
before I am worthy of staying?
I love you more than I love myself.
Is that enough? No.
I'll be better.
Skinnier, prettier, quieter,
a reflection of what you desire,
not what I am.
Is this love?
Do I even know what love is?
Should it leave me hollow
when you inevitably go?
If love is real, should it ache like this?
Should it make me feel like a body,
a shell, a desperate reaching hand?
Is it love, or anxious attachment?
Will you leave if I ask too much?
If I speak too loudly?
If I am too much of myself?
I hold onto every scrap of affection,
a touch, a glance, a lingering word,
proof that, for now, I am not alone.
That, for a moment, I exist to you.
I shrink myself, fold into quiet spaces,
make myself small enough to fit
inside the cracks of your indifference.
I rewrite my laughter, soften my voice,
trim the edges of my thoughts
until they no longer cut too deep.
Will I ever be enough to make you stay?
Or am I destined to be temporary,
a fleeting thought, a half-forgotten dream?
I have spent years learning to be less,
but even in my smallest form,
I am still too much.
Do I deserve love, or only the pieces I beg for?
Will my life always mirror the way I see myself,
fractured, incomplete, unworthy?
Or am I chasing a ghost,
calling out for a love that does not exist,
at least, not for me?
I tell myself to stop waiting,
to stop shaping myself into something
that might finally be enough.
But how do you unlearn a hunger
that has always gone unfed?
How do you convince yourself
that you are worthy of love
when love has never known your name?
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