Just Enough to shatter Again

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.