#the almost

I’m the test run, the rough draft, the scar they outgrew, The deep-end girl that they never swam through. I’m the ache in his gut when he holds her too tight, The ghost in his grin when she kisses him right.

I stayed through withdrawals, through rage and regret, Through doors getting slammed and “you’ll thank me” threats. I gave him my calm, he gave me the blame, Then called me too broken to carry his name.

They say “healed men love better,” and maybe they do, But why is the healing always done on my truth? Why am I the battlefield, never the win? Why do they rest only after they sin?

I don’t want the next girl to pay for my scars, But why am I always the training ground for stars? I taught him to feel, then he used that on her. Now she gets the vows, and I get the blur.

I told one man how to touch without fear, Now she gets the safety, I disappear. Taught another how to cry, how to own, Now he’s emotionally fluent… just not in my home.

I’m the “almost,” the heartbreak, the chemical code, The ghostwriter of love on someone else’s road. I’m the “damn, she changed me,” the name in the verse, The one he loved wrong before loving her first.

And still I want it. Still crave that passionate burn . To be more than a checkpoint, more than the scorn. To be called mine without bracing for lack, To give love away and have it come back.

So yeah, I’ve been in love. And deep in the fight. But I don’t think I’ve ever been loved back right. Not fully. Not raw. Not the don’t-run-away kind. I want to be the chapter where he makes up his mind.

Not the heartbreak before he gets his shit straight. Not the girl that his healing made show up late.