Flipping through men
Like a deck of elaborately
Designed
Playing cards.

Blowing cotton seeds
Of “I love you”
Into the wind.

I’m not ready.

I keep saying that,
And it keeps getting disregarded
Because I’m a woman.
All women are waiting to be loved,
After all.

But I’m waiting for my own love
To wrap around my imperfect body,
Grow into my trauma fueled mind
And give me the chance
To build myself around it.
To cling to it
As if I am a vine,
And it a supporting tree.

But still,
“I care for you.”
“I want you to be mine.”
“We have a connection.”
“You’re special to me.”
“We’re together.”

And no one listens
To my protests.
My discouragement
Makes them believe they can change me.
Makes them believe
The reward will be so much better.

But I’m not ready.