They ask about love
like it’s soft,
smiles,
steady hands,
sweet words.

No.

I don’t love you
for what you give.
I love you
for what it costs—
the cracks,
the hunger,
the dark you drag with you.

It’s the way you stand
like a wound still open,
breathing like it hurts,
looking at me
and nowhere at all.

I don’t want the mask.
I want the raw.
Even in silence,
even when it sickens me,
even when it tears me open—
I still love you.