I can’t help that it’s 2:45 AM as I finally start to piece together the way that I want you. Instead of calling you because I know you’re asleep and you have work tomorrow (and fuck me, I do too), I am sitting, typing furiously to no one.
I should not have to answer whether or not I love you.
You don’t get to ask me that question.
You made me love you, and you goddamn know it.
I was so happy before I met you. I was inspired by everything: a kiss from a stranger at the bar was romance, a night with someone who I can barely call a friend felt like love, even someone with a T-shirt of a band I used to love could be labeled “soulmate.”
I did not want to love you.
But you pushed and pushed and pushed because you are always on your high horse telling me that I deserve love, I deserve this, I deserve you. But we fucking knew. We knew you were leaving and that I was staying but you convinced me it was worth the risk. And layer by layer you wore away at the ice, then rock, then lava that sheltered me, (disguised as casual, anger, and distrust), and finally I fell crying and vulnerable into your arms that seem like they were made special to hold me.
But now, I’m here: crouched in front of my laptop, but still raw and naked the way you wanted to see my insides, and you? You are not here. You’re asleep because you wear ties to work and I still sleep in and drink wine from the bottle in bed.
I’m not inspired anymore by false romance or movies that hit the right tensions or good food and nice sunsets: you’ve left me ravenously hungry for your love, your care, your attention to goddamn detail.
Piece by piece, clavicle to ankle bone, ear to ear, secret to lie, family to diaries: you’ve opened me up and left me here to pretend I don’t mind slipping back into full body armor while the last guy I used to fake emotion for attempts to break through at least for a kiss.
But I can’t let him.
Because if he opens the mask on this suit even just a little bit, he’ll see my eyes aren’t filled with lust or with a twinkle that means I’m drunk on life— they’re cold and waiting for what you promised you would be able to give.
Yes, I love you.
But what’s it in it for you, anyway?
You’re loved by an ice block, frozen solid,