Which me do you love?

“What the fuck are you playing at?”

I’ve leaped out of bed,

All sweaty and wet

And that’s on you.

It’s on you because you said it

before I had a chance to dry off.

I was warm and cozy and basking in the glow

Of what we just shared.

Breathing in a moment

too deep for me to name.

It’s intimacy, piece-meal, just like we said.

So what the fuck is your deal?

Saying you “love” me?

Now, I know I look crazy,

So why the fuck are you so calm?

My eyes are wide,

Hair a mess, trembling down to my palms.

You have no right to look at me like that,

Like you see all of me.

I grab the sheet and cover my skin

And feel naked still.

I feel the fear crawling up,

It’s itching in my skin…

I have to let it out,

So I say mean things I don’t mean.

Are you stupid?

Yes, you must be.

What a silly little dove,

Chasing after avoidant women

Coz you never had a mama’s love.

Your eyes stay steady.

And it cuts me because

I know that’s unfair.

You told me all the ways it broke you that she left…

But I’m more afraid for my heart than for yours…

Dear God, you’re too close.

Maybe the truth will work better.

“Let me get this right…You love me?”

Hah.

“Which parts of me, exactly?

What version of me do you think you fucking love?”

Something flickers in your eyes.

I watch it settle in you.

And my guilt sinks inside,

Because I know just what I do.

Yes, you told me too

How she manipulated you.

Played out what you said you wanted

As she emptied out your pockets.

But still I press on,

While my insides scream at me to stop.

I dig in. I cannot stop

Now that I’ve found something soft.

Hah.

“Do you love the workaholic me?

The avoidant me?

The hogs-the-bed me?

The eccentric me?

Or maybe you love the submissive me—

The “Make it hurt, Sir,”

and “Yes, Sir,”

And more, Sir.

The one who preens under your praise

And pushes back for more pain?”

Fuck.

My laugh is cruel now.

“Maybe you love the dress-up-and-show-off me.

The make-up and dolled-up me.

The wear-painful-shoes

Just so you can give me that look… me.

Or the broken, crying, up-at-midnight ruminating me?

The why are you with me, again? me.

The who the fuck was she? me.

The aspiring me?

The given-up-on-her-dreams me?

The chubby me—

Soft belly, thick thighs

That make me want to gouge out my eyes… me.

WHICH FUCKING ME DO YOU LOVE?”

I stand there,

Heaving

And trembling.

I’m stupid and desperate

For you to say something—

Anything.

Ready for none of it.

I watch you stand up.

Chest bare,

With your heart in your eyes.

Those eyes taking in my feet,

And the sheet

I wrapped around me as flimsy armor…

You pause on my breasts,

Heaving, out of place—

A Victorian similitude.

And then up to my eyes,

Which I know must look wide

And a lot terrified.

You’re silent,

Letting me stew.

I both love and hate

That silent, controlled

Part of you.

I’m afraid, ’cause I think you’ll try

To calm me.

Or

Explain me.

Even worse—maybe

Contain me.

So I don’t hear your next words…

They come at me from afar,

Reaching under the river of tears

I shed to pour out my heart.

This dude says,

“Yes. This. All of it.”

And just like that,

My armor is useless.

Heart slows down.

Well.

Fuck.

And the asshole smiles

Like he knows he just undid me.

Fuck.

Do I love this man.