To the man who loves me,

I’m sorry that my mouth doesn’t form around the word ‘want’ very easily,

that in all my time on this earth
I have only felt the kindness of people on
tv screens and in pages of safe books
that I hide on the shelves of my heart.
that in every case that someone has touched me
it has left scars,
that whatever may be left of the beating organ in my chest
is held together with duct tape
and tense hope
that whoever next comes along
learns to be more gentle.
I’m sorry that I will need reassurance that you love me,
that I’ll constantly feel like a weight
that’s carried in your palms or on your
mind –

dear god, don’t be afraid to tell me to stop.
I’m not so fragile despite my cracks,
I can take the blunt of judgement on my shoulders,
I’ve been told they’re wide enough.
I leave tea-filled strainers on the counter,
my necklaces throughout your home as if a small sign
of me saying you’re mine.
I don’t take sugar in my coffee and I
drink orange juice only in the morning.
that in the span of a few days,
I have memorized what your back feels like
and what side you sleep on.
I’m sorry I won’t ever be comfortable in my own skin
and my mind will try to kill me over and over again,
that I won’t be able to draw a straight line
because my body decides that
staying still is not for me,

I’m too much
I’m too little.
but most of all,
dear man who loves me,
I am sorry that I will never be able to tell you
how much your love means to me
and how,
for the moments that we are together,
I forget what hating myself feels like.

—  I am sorry. K. Kazik.

 

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