Sometimes I do not think that I deserve to be loved.
I am strange,
I take swords to my chest, you see,
and I plunge them deep
whenever the corners of my mouth lift too high,
for my own liking.
I then pull them out and push them in again
The pain of it lingers, though I stopped crying out a long time ago.
The pain of cracking my own chest open,
and hoping beyond hope that I like what I see.
And the hope that you, darling, like it too.