So you see yourself as a revolving door:
a place people keep passing through
but never want to stay.
You get used to the idea of impermanence–
never fall in love without an exit strategy,
a way to untangle your heart
when they leave you.
(And they always leave you.
That part, at least,
is constant.)
When you become, instead, a dead end,
a back alley, a Do Not Enter,
they want to know why you are suddenly
unavailable.
You show them hands calloused
from all this giving–ask if they have ever loved
a day in their life, ask
why everything you had was
never enough to satisfy.
Trouble is, you see yourself as a peace offering:
a willing body meant to keep the quiet
quiet.
And you throw yourself at every open mouth.
So your method of coping looks more like
taking your body to market
just to see who’s willing to buy it.
This is how you give yourself up in pieces, but
never notice what you’re missing.
It’s how you use sex as just
another way to hurt yourself.
How you become nameless in the face
of all the things you want in parts and pieces
but refuse to accept in full.
Love becomes a fairy tale that scares you.
Kisses, safe only in small doses–it’s dangerous
to get attached to the things that never
want you.
Or worse,
the ones who want to keep you:
like an animal, like a trophy, like
bragging rights.
When all you’ve ever wanted is somebody
who would keep you
like a promise.