Each morning we awake with our heads buried into each others chests, as if they were bags of sand.
As if, everyone outside of this tiny room, would disappear.

Each morning he would tell me I am beautiful, so I stop wearing makeup and feeling the pressure to shave.
I don’t change out of my pajamas or shower for a week and he still tells me; ‘you are beautiful’.

He is all too familiar with my history to lie and I am all too familiar with the grey area of comfortability that I paint for myself.
And yet still I reply; “I love you too”
and he believes me without hesitation.  

This feeling is so familiar that I no longer can tell if it is a lie or the truth.
But I know that he believes me.
He looks down at me with big rounded eyes as he smiles, and I tell him;
“crows-feet do not look good on anyone so can you please soften up your face”.

No night is complete without my relentless nagging to watch a film
and afterwards, I still complain.
I complain when he ignores me while playing video games and I complain when he talks during Eastenders.

I have this compulsive urge inside of me to text him about every aspect of my life, while he is at work, from going for a walk to taking a bath.
He never replies.
But he congratulates me when I do the dishes even though he works 6 days a week while I sleep.

He makes loving me seem so easy. He makes me feel as though I am worthy of being loved.

We are both aware that I have molded him into being exactly what I need him to be-
Both protector and provider.
Both willing to take on the hefty weight of my sins without burdening me with his own.

When the guilt becomes too much he calls me both ‘baby bear’ and ‘princess’ while he rubs my back to help me sleep.

When he catches me searching for my old lovers name on facebook, he says nothing.
When he tells me he bumped into my old lover on the street, he detects my mood change and holds me closer.

I know that he is hurting inside too, but I allow him to comfort me everyday that it rains,
and in this little town, that’s more often than not.

I don’t know why I feel closer to abandonment and burnt out flames,
than I do to the shelter he built for me so I never had to go cold again.

Every restaurant we visit, every pub we drink at, I see every man who has ever sat in his place.
I can’t resist the temptation to tell him the story of when another man sat me at this very table.

I don’t know what to tell him when he asks me why everything I have ever needed is not enough.
I think the answer lies somewhere in my art.

You build our future, while I build my career.
A career of box wrapped trauma converted into a museum spectacle.
You piece me together until I am complete, left feeling so content and so- uninspired.

The distinction between falling in love with creating art and falling in love with the pain that brought me here is not clear.

I can not deny the underlying humour when I cry to a ghost of a man, asking what parts of me he is not able to love.

I dug a hole so deep into your chest, so I could bury my head and forget all the heartbreak that came before you.
And you forced yourself so deeply into my heart that you are willing to ignore all the warning signs and for that I thank you.