i have my moments where i believe i could be loved by someone other than myself. if i think about it, and maybe examine myself from the perspective of another, i can see all the lovable parts of me.

i have a really pretty smile, and i know i’m funny with loud, boisterous laughter that always bubbles up so easily. i’m kind, and i have emotions that run so very deep, and when i love something, or someone, i love hard—for better or worse.

i don’t know how to be any other way.

i’ve come to learn, however, that other people may see those things, but also see the ugly, unlovable parts of me too. i’ve spent a lot of time trying to convince myself that my good qualities far outweigh the bad ones, but maybe i’m wrong. other people treat me like i’m wrong, so perhaps my arrogance blinds me from the truth.

and the truth is that i can’t be loved.

i look inward, and i know the capacity of which i can love someone else. there is so much of it inside me, i have no idea what to do with it, nor where it can go. i pour, and pour, and pour—always lingering above you like a storm cloud.

but that’s just it, isn’t it?

the love within me is a hurricane.

i come into your life with gale-force winds, and i pour my heart all over you until you’re bloody and drenched, but the heaven between my thighs is so warm and wet, you can’t help but slip yourself into me. a night of rain is bearable if it’s for a kiss goodnight and some good head.

to romantic affection, that’s the closest i can get; so of course, i’ll open my legs. of course i’ll let you slobber all over my neck. of course i’ll let you slip your hands between my breasts. of course i’ll let you sleep in my bed before you leave in the morning; and evacuation’s at sunrise, but you’ll continue to live in my head.

i’m doomed to keep you as a reminder that as far as being loved is concerned, i shouldn’t hold my breath; and if i can’t be loved, give me power, though i can’t seem to get even that.