Because you have.
I don’t feel your warmth.
Only as though I am baggage.
I wish I could tell you how beautiful he made me feel.
His kisses still linger,
his grace,
his charm,
his kindness.
I wish you did too.
But you’re so consumed in your melancholy
That my expectations feel like a chore.
You’re entitled to your wants
But I am not.
I am a burden.
I am a burden you do not want to carry.
You recoil like you’ve been wounded.
And I no longer have the strength to coax you otherwise.
Maybe this is for the best.
My skin.
My skin.
The taste of my skin.
But never my trauma.
You’re too cynical to feel my warmth.
It’s okay.
I will be okay.
Break my heart,
You can never break my spirit.
