Love, bpd

“Soft Skin, Sharp Love”

I wear red lips

not for the mirror,

but for the chance

he might look longer.

Perfume on my wrists,

like promises I can’t keep—

I turn myself into a fantasy,

just to be wanted.

Love shouldn’t ache like this.

But I keep returning

like a moth to his flame,

even though I know

I’ll burn prettier than I’ll survive.

I offer my body

like a question,

hoping the answer is love—

or something close enough to pretend.

I crave the ache

of being seen,

even when I know

his eyes don’t hold softness for me.

He doesn’t mean to hurt me.

That’s what makes it worse.

There’s no villain here,

only a girl loving too hard

and a boy who never asked her to.

I’m addicted to the almosts,

the maybe-tonight-he’ll-feel-it-too.

But he doesn’t.

And I do.

God, I do.

I paint myself

in hunger and lipstick,

write poems in my mind

while he touches me absentmindedly.

And when he leaves,

I whisper to the ceiling,

“If this is love,

why does it feel like dying in silk?”