The problem is
I will always open the door for you,
even after the hinges splinter,
even after the lock learns
it was never meant to keep you out.
I let you in like rain through cracked windows,
like a wound reopening
because it misses the knife.
You could hand me silence
wrapped in excuses
and I would still hold it gently,
still convince myself
it sounded enough like love.
Because I care about you
in catastrophic ways.
In ways that ask nothing back.
In ways that leave me starving
while I insist you take the last piece of me
just so I can watch you smile.
And God,
your smile is dangerous.
It makes ruin feel noble.
Makes self-destruction feel gentle.
Makes me stand in the background
breaking quietly at the seams
while pretending I am whole enough
to carry both of us.
So I turn my eyes away from the truth.
I swallow every warning whole.
I bury the hurt beneath excuses
and call it patience,
call it understanding,
call it anything except what it is.
Because if I admitted the truth,
I would have to face
how often I abandoned myself
just to keep you close.
Still,
every time I shatter,
I kneel beside the wreckage
and gather the pieces with bleeding hands.
I rebuild myself poorly,
crooked and fragile,
just enough to survive you again.
And maybe that is the cruelest part.
No matter how broken I become,
I keep leaving enough of myself alive
for you to destroy once more.