You know who you are.
I'm not going to say it.

First of all, I'm full of clichés and apologies.
Forgive me later; the rest is more important.

I wish I could tell you aloud the things I've told you while you slept.
It comes in bursts, which you trigger, and lately I miss you even when you're next to me.
Because when you're next to me, you're not yourself.
You're not ready, or not alone.
You can be cruel.

But I know you better.
You've told me a thousand times, I know you best.
I know the broken pieces, locked away and swept under rugs.
I searched until you showed me.

And it's not a pretty picture, not all of it.
I've loved you despite yourself.

And you-- you know me, too.
You're the only one who knows it all, because you've been there for so much of it so far.
And the rest, I've shown you.
And you're the only one.

You're the only one who's seen nearly so much-- my broken pieces locked away and swept under rugs-- and has ever come back for more.
You're the only one who's done this outside the boundaries of friendship, although that's where we're standing now.

And you're the only one who's loved me despite myself.
And not because you had to.