He didn’t fall in love
With the pink scars
That line my fingers,
Or the mascara tears
That stain my pillowcase.
He didn’t kiss me to
Take away the pain,
Or hold my hand
To carry me through
The suffocation of sorrow.
He didn’t love me for
My broken soul.
But he didn’t fall in love
With my smile either.
Or the laughter that
Sometimes bubbled
Out through my belly.
He didn’t kiss my dimples
To consume my joy
Or pet my hair to
Comfort me.
He didn’t love me for
My pretty face.
He fell in love with me.
Not just part of me,
But all of me.
He loves me when
I’m angry and sad
And jealous and petty
And selfish and immature.
And he loves me when
I’m happy and smiling
And joyful and obnoxious
And hyper and thoughtful.
Not once has he ever
Asked for his sweet girlfriend back.
Or his happy girlfriend
Or the girl he fell in love with.
Because all of them are me.
And I love all of him as well.