Love has always been painful.

Love has always been fleeting.

Love has always been 

just out of my reach.

The first man I ever loved 

loved me in his warm embrace.

Loved me in song.

Loved me with a kiss hello,

but not always a kiss goodnight.

I’ve never really been able to define love or explain love or experience a love that didn’t hurt.

Love has to hurt.

Love has to hurt.

Love has to

hurt.

The first man I ever loved

kept me waiting at night,

tears rolling down my cheeks

as I sat by the window

waiting for my goodnight kiss.

What is love without pain?

Without chaos?

Without tears?

What is love?

Who is love?

Who have I loved?

Men that love me on their schedule.

Men that want me, that kiss me, and make me cry.

They make me miss them, make me need them, make me beg them for consistency.

I’ve loved them with every fiber of my being,

loved them in every language,

loved them more than I love myself.

I love with the softness I can’t give myself.

I love with the understanding I can’t give myself.

I love so that I don’t have to love myself.

I wish I knew what it meant to love myself.

I wish I could talk kindly to myself.

On a good day, I can tolerate my reflection.

But most days I avoid it, I run from it, I loathe it.

I wish I understood the importance of loving myself.

The importance of listening to my intuition.

The importance of soothing my own pain.

The importance of making myself happy.

I’m afraid of being happy.

Happiness is fleeting.

People are fleeting.

Making men happy makes me happy.

How can I love myself?

How can I make myself happy?

Without another person?

Without my person?

Without letting their happiness fuel my own?

I want to be loved.

Loved with the same softness.

With the same understanding.

I want to be loved by the one I love.

The one I didn’t see coming.

The one that felt effortless.

Destined.

My other half.

Because I’ve never felt whole.

Men make me feel whole.

They fill me

with their thoughts, their desires, their fears, 

and sometimes their love.

Love was always the missing peace.

The peace that came with some pain, some chaos, some tears.

The peace that felt like it was enough.

Enough.

Because it wasn’t all pain.

No, it wasn’t all pain.

But pain was all I had known.

So, this is the love meant for me.

The love that will force me to love myself.

That will force me to love my reflection.

My reflection next to his.

The love that will force me to be happy 

when my service makes him smile.

The love that will force me to understand my shortcomings.

That will force me to do something about them.

For him.

And then for me.