Doormat

I don't love him because he's pretty,

I love him because everything's an accident,

because he could hit me

and he'd still get to see my broken face.

I love him because I know my place.

A jar of bones,

a wallet photo,

a night queen.

I'm a well-kept secret,

he's a drawer no one's checked.

I want to love him in the daytime.

I wish I thought he was pretty,

just pretty,

so I wouldn't have to sit on his shelf,

packed and preserved,

protected like a pearl.

Maybe I don't want to love him at all.