She Loved Me More When I Was Broken

She loved me

when I shook,

when my voice cracked,

when my nights were sleepless

and I spilled like water

across her floor.

She called it love

but it was a quiet hunger—

me, shattered porcelain,

her, the one who swept.

She felt holy

when I was helpless.

Felt needed

when I dissolved.

But then

I grew skin again.

I stitched a spine

from all the nights I didn’t die.

I started saying:

that hurts.

I started asking:

why do you speak to me like that?

Suddenly,

I was difficult.

Suddenly,

there was drama.

She twisted my boundaries

into blame,

my healing

into betrayal.

She said I changed—

and she was right.

I stopped bleeding for her comfort.

And that was the end

of a love

that only lived

in my silence.