I deserve the one
who helps hold the tremble in my hands
like it’s something sacred –
who doesn’t flinch when my shadows rise,
but welcomes them
as old friends with tired eyes.

The one who sees
my silence not as stone,
but as a room echoing with stories
too heavy to speak.
And still, they stay.
Still, they listen.

I deserve the one
who is afraid to lose me –
not from fear,
but from the knowing,
the deep, bone-etched knowing
that love like mine
doesn’t come twice.

They see the ruin as I hide behind smiles
and say, “This isn’t broken.
This is art, mid-creation.”
They trace my cracks like constellations,
naming galaxies where others
only saw damage.

They see the storm
and don’t run.
They pull up a chair
and offer tea,
while the thunder rolls
and my heart remembers
how to soften.

They know
the mess isn’t malice,
the outburst isn’t betrayal,
the retreat isn’t rejection –
just pain,
spilling out of places
that never learned
how to bleed quietly.

And I,
for once,
do not shrink from that love.
I stand in it.
I breathe in it.
I let it echo through my ribs
until it becomes mine too.

Because I deserve the kind of love
that sees all of me –
and stays.