What if keeping those parts of me alive is worth letting go of the part that wants to be loved?
sometimes I think maybe I don’t need love the way people say I should. maybe what I need is to keep the parts of me that wake up when someone calls me good girl, when I shake, when I’m raw and seen and trembling. maybe that’s my kind of aliveness.
I used to think love would make me whole. now I wonder if love just makes me quieter, smaller, softer in a way that feels like forgetting who I am. because when I’m touched the way I crave—when I’m pushed past the edge of language—I remember everything: my hunger, my want, my body.
and maybe that’s the trade. maybe keeping those parts alive means I stop asking anyone to stay. maybe it means I let go of the part of me that waits for good morning texts, that wants to be chosen, that still believes in being loved.
maybe I don’t need love to feel real. maybe I just need to keep burning.
