I have moved in on your front lawn and called it home.

You let me stay, climb in my tent, and spend nights in my arms, the world outside muted by the glow of where our skin touches.

I don’t need anything from you, capable of standing on my own two feet, carving out my own curve of the world, but I want you, hope for you, long for you, think of you.

You need someone to stand, balanced and still, a beam holding up your house. But me, the individual?

Your want seems so much less than mine, but then Anhedonia holds you too close. You don’t want anything, not even yourself.

If I could pry her fingers loose, if I could fight your war, but I’m incapable, can only stand outside offering what I am to you.

My feet bleed from walking barefoot down your road, and I know that even if you decide to love me, so much worse is yet to come. But I can’t turn away, when you feel just like—