i fear this may be
me at my best—
half-hearted smiles
held together by thread,
words that choke
before they leave.

if this is all
i have to give,
then what good
am i to anyone?

even my shadows
have grown bored
of following me.

here’s what they never tell you:
to be loved,
you are supposed to be perfect.
smile wide.
never stutter.
keep your darkness tucked
behind your teeth.

but what if you show your cracks?
what if your scars scream louder
than your laugh?
what if your mind is a rainstorm
that never stops pouring?

will they run,
call you crazy,
lock the door,
swallow the key?

or —

and here’s the terrifying part —
will someone stay,
hands steady,
and say:
"i see you,
storm and all,
and i choose
to love you still?"

and if they do
how do you stay?
knowing that you are
worse than they can ever know.