I love you.
that’s the clean part.
the part you can hold up to the light
and it doesn’t flinch.
the rest of it
is me,
walking around with my history in my mouth
trying not to bite down.
I’m lucky you’re mine.
I know what I am.
I know what I’ve been.
I know the names I’ve been called
and the ones I called myself
when no one was listening.
so when you stay,
when you look at me like I’m not a before-and-after photo
that ends in ruin,
when you meet my eyes
like you’re not taking inventory of my damage,
I don’t call it fate.
I call it you,
doing this brave, ordinary miracle
of choosing me on purpose.
I call it something I don’t deserve
and I don’t mean that like a compliment
to my shame.
I mean it like a vow.
because I know how easy it is
to treat tenderness like it’s renewable,
to spend love like it can’t run out.
but you,
you make me want to live
like gratitude is a practice,
like devotion is a verb,
like “mine” isn’t ownership,
it’s a promise I get to keep.
and I won’t take you for granted.
I won’t.
I won’t.