I asked for rain, not hurricanes—
just softer words, not deeper pains.
I wasn’t begging for the moon,
just kindness that could come soon.
You called it “need.” You called it “much.”
As if my want was hard to touch.
As if to hold me how I break
was more than even love could take.
I mapped my heart in plain old ink—
no riddles, no abyss to think.
But still you wandered like you knew
another language I loved through.
You loved like glass. I loved like thread—
I tried to stitch, you’d rather shed.
You loved with pride. I loved with plea.
You gave the sky, but not to me.
And when I asked—just once—to feel
a version of your love that’s real,
you looked at me like I had sinned
for needing what you wouldn’t bend.