Love is such a slippery word.

I want to love you, but loving you is like trying to shove everything I own into a box. Not everything can fit into the perfect mold you want me to be.

You call me “beautiful,” but the word doesn’t feel like a compliment – it feels like a prescription. I feel myself trying to fit this label you’ve placed on me. I squirm when you look at me now, hoping despite myself that you will love me for my flaws so I can stop worrying about being beautiful.

Whatever that word means.

When you said you loved me, it was another label. I recognized that. It was another attempt at trying to pin down a moment. Your hands were in my hair. We were in the slender hour of twilight. Something in your face suddenly broke and I saw the child in you. It lasted only a moment, but I saw. Then you said those words and my world just stopped. Fear trickled down my spine.

Love is such a slippery word. It is so easy to lose your balance on it. So easy to exchange meaning for hope. And my coordination was never that great to begin with.

The End

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