I can see the signs; I can see the patterns. I didn’t think they existed outside of you but his boundaries have no limits. I cannot get inside. Someone has already made his body their home. It’s me, I know it is. My soul does not consist of rays of light that wake people from their sleepy lives. It does not sing when it rains; it does not dance when no one is around to witness it. My soul and my core are darkened; they are damaged. The only difference is that I cannot relinquish the curse of the sadness brought upon me by myself. It is my own doing. No one wants to make a home out of me, for it is far too dangerous: the structure is all wrong, and the damage is far beyond repairable. It would need to be completely destroyed and then rebuilt. But who has that time? You did not. He does not. And they will not. I can see the patterns; I can see the signs. I wait, just like I did. I wait. I wait. I wait. And nothing. I try, just like I did. I try. I try. I try. And nothing. I am going 90 miles per hour towards a brick wall. One of us has to break. But either way, I end up hurt. I am all over. I know what is right. I am not a fool. So why am I continuing to wait? Why am I taking these blows? Does he really see me? Or am I just a flesh-covered fuck? Do I matter? Am I a factor in his life at all? My cheeks were stained – I cried because it was me. But once again, I’m no fool. I am well aware, too aware of my faults and flaws, yet I know what I deserve. I didn’t deserve that. Not from you, not from him. But he’s different. He makes me feel things inside of my body that I didn’t know were possible. I relish in him and his touch. But he is different. I can’t help but to be consumed with thoughts that I am not enough, just like with you. I am not enough yet too much altogether. You did not yell, only once. The anguish you felt was expressed differently than his. The anger you felt was always embedded in your body and was never released. Instead it came out in passive aggressive spurts that watered me down with gasoline and set my flesh and my heart on fire. His emotions are very present, very awakening, just like mine – just like you couldn’t handle. He is verbally expressive. And up until last night I thought he liked my mind, but that is to be determined. I am asleep and I am unconscious at times. I speak a lot yet I’m terribly quiet. But I am sometimes too vocal with my feelings, and I don’t want to apologize for that. But I’m losing my voice. I try and speak and my brain knows the words but my mouth does not comply. And I feel paralyzed with him. But no one is paralyzing me but myself. I try to move slowly, sturdily. But I get nowhere. I am stuck. I am a good person. I would please him, get on my knees for him. I want to make his body and his world better. And I try. But I’m putting someone before myself again that’s not even technically mine; I vowed to never do that again. But he’s different. I’m happy with him. I’m comfortable with him. I do not tense up when he touches me. He has seen me naked. He has seen me sober. He has seen me drunk. He has seen me cry. He has seen me laugh. He has seen me sad. He has seen me. And gotten to know me. And my friends. What he has seen, most people have been blind to. He works differently than most people. He is honest, he is raw, he is exposed. He is a canvas I so desperately want to paint on, but I do not know how much room I have because there are other paintings already. But he is disturbingly beautiful. He is crafted so imperfectly that it is lovely. Because our imperfections are beautiful and the most honest thing about us. I spent a good portion of my life hating myself and today is no different. Tomorrow will be no different.