how can he say he loves me,
when he doesn’t know the weight i carry,
the reasons i move like a shadow,
folding myself small to fit the shape of his world?

he doesn’t know the lines that spill out of me
when the night turns its back,
the words that stitch my breaking heart
into something passable, something whole.
he hates poetry.
he doesn’t know it’s the only thing keeping me here.

he says i seem happier today,
but that’s only the mask holding steady,
only the cracks i’ve learned to patch
with practiced hands and a trembling smile.
does he notice the moments i falter,
when the mask threatens to slip?
or does love mean looking away?

he doesn’t know me.
he doesn’t understand that every laugh is a compromise,
every kiss, a sacrifice.
he doesn’t see the pieces i’ve buried
so no one else has to look at them.
how can he love what he can’t see?

and yet, he stays.
why does he stay?
does he think i’m a puzzle to solve,
a mystery waiting to unfold?
or is he just as lost as i am,
clinging to something that feels like love,
even when it’s not?

and if i asked him to read me,
to trace the lines i write in the dark,
would he hate me too?
would he still say he loves me
if he finally knew?