Love is not giving yourself away piece by shattered piece
to convince him to feel about you what you feel for him
it is not a million misused chances for the stubborn hope that the pretty words you write will make him want to stay
it is not allowing him to treat your body like a hotel, to come and go in his own pleasure
because he knows better than to think there will come a day where you may have changed the locks
love is not an inexhaustible cycle of sleepless nights
spent wondering what variant of himself he may show you tomorrow
if he shows you one at all
love is not stripping yourself of all the armor you put on to shield away all of his demons
his lips may taste like honey but baby they burnt your skin
and he is already painting her the pictures you thought were only meant for you