in starlight

the idea of love is so strange to me because it’s something i’ve always wanted, something i want, but i don’t think anyone could love me in the way i need. in a way i would enjoy. i’ve always been the caregiver and the lover and the one who cares more. i am the one who thinks too much and thinks about you all the time because i don’t know how else to be, and everything i see will remind me of you. i don’t know if that was ever meant to be returned to me, or if the line of love versus in love will make me sick. because my coffee order changes daily, but always stays sweet, and who can memorize someone who is always changing. i talk too much, and ramble about three thousand different things, and i don’t expect anyone to remember. how could anyone keep up? what am i if not exhausting and contradictory. what am i if not begging to be soft. begging to be remembered. begging to be seen. begging to be understood. i’m tired of constantly having to do things for myself, but accustomed to the routine. i love like it’s breathing, but to love me is a chore. i can’t picture anyone finding me in the smallest of signs or wanting to be the first one i turn to. i don’t know if anyone could ever be in love with me enough to want to take care of me. not when that’s my job, always has been, and i feel like i’m doomed to constantly repeat it. i carry this weight the same way i carry my heart.