Let me offer you two choices: love me entirely—as a whole. Or not at all.
Because loving me means loving my maximum volume laugh and crooked grin, not only my sweet tender smile when we first talked. Frankly speaking, I faked it. Because I heard your ex was such a girly girl who chewed softly and covered her mouth while giggling.
Loving me means loving my wild scream when I insist that those crappy things aren’t my fault, not only my delicate kinds of rueful sorry when I realize I am totally wrong. Sorry to confuse you; I am selfish in almost everything, including having you, so even if I do things frightfully amiss, I still want you to not quit.
Loving me means loving my trove of unforgivable words and monstrous look when I flare up, not only my sudden handwritten love letters I secretly slip into your bag—and by the way, sorry that writing them is not enough for me that seven mornings in a week I still let you wake up to 99+ messages about how I am terrifyingly in love with you.
Loving me means loving my horrible knowledge on how to deal with missing someone, not only my low-level of jealousy that you are able to tell me how pretty your new classmate is. Sorry, I can’t handle the urge to ring you up each night, causing you to run off to the living room and lie to the entire household just so they don’t know you’re calling your special friend.
And loving me means understanding that even if I love you too, it doesn’t mean I can’t leave, for loving and holding on are two worlds apart—I am not the kind who easily gives in, but getting smashed and ruined over and over again is not something I can bear.
So, my dear, it’s all up to you: love me as a whole or just not at all.
by: n. I. a.
#poetry #photography #phosphenous