I’m scared to love again.
Because my life has taught me, over and over, that the things I love do not stay.
They leave.
They get ruined.
They get torn out of my hands.
So now when someone finally good finds me, I don’t just feel the happiness.
I feel the fear standing right next to it.
I feel the grief before there is even anything to grieve.
I start waiting for the shift.
For the sentence.
For the unseen thing that always finds me and says,
No.
Not this.
Not him.
You do not get to have this.
You do not get to be loved like that.
You do not deserve it.
You have not suffered enough.
I do not know what I did to make pain so faithful to me.
I do not know why love always feels like something I have to prepare to lose.
I only know that I am tired.
I’m tired of feeling unsafe inside beautiful things.
I’m tired of reaching back with one hand while the other braces for the blood.
So how much pain is enough?
How much do I have to survive before whatever is watching me decides I have paid my debt?
Before it stops turning every beautiful thing into something I have to grieve?
And yet… some part of me still believes.
Some part of me still looks at love like it’s something I get to keep.
Like maybe this time it won’t destroy me.
Maybe this time I will not have to bleed for it.
And I don’t know if that makes me brave, or if that makes me a fool.