My mother always said:
“Date someone who loves you more than you love him. That way, he will never leave you”
As if, being alone was worse off than being stuck ******* a man I feel nothing for.
As if, I was expected to trade my happiness for stability.
As if, my love was not strong enough on its own.

As if, my worth was something that could only be measured out in transactions—
in dozens of roses
—I hate roses.

But he who loves me more
believes that I am perfect
so its okay
because perfect girls love perfect things like roses
…which are red.

and passion is red, and **** is red
so he measures out his love for me in vases and bouquets of roses
…which are red

and violets are blue,
but so are bruised egos
and mine is too damaged to tell him
that I can’t love him like Im supposed to.
because my mother always warned me not to.