You Don't Love Me

You don't love me.

Your love isn't rooted in my smile,

nor the sparkle in my eyes,

or the way the bleached hair you claim to like falls down my back.

You don't love the sound of my laugh,

or my excited ramblings.

--

You love that I always remember your schedule, even when you forget.

You love that I set your reminders, that I show up, that I follow through.

You love that I will bend my time around your world,

splicing myself into pieces, ever so gracious, until I'm

Unrecognizable. Unseen.

Unimportant.

--

You love the lunches I've packed, the dinners I've cooked,

but not the hands that made them.

You love the healing, embrace the support,

but not the heart that is shattering to do it.

You love the swept floors, the clean mirrors,

but not the woman who doesn't recognize her own reflection.

You love the "I already did it" before you've asked.

You love to be held, scratched, massaged,

but not to do the holding, the soothing, the care.

--

You love the mirror that I've made you feel seen in,

the house I've made a home,

but you've never turned to see if I'm still standing behind,

instead of drowning into the foundations.

--

You love that I've given so much that to give is a reflex,

A drop in my gut that I have mistaken for caring.

How I excuse your silence, and bend to understand you,

while empathy has taken a leave of absence from your mind.

How I set myself on fire

so that you don't have to feel the bite of the tundra freeze.

--

You love that I am low maintenance,

as I've pushed my needs away so long to seemingly not have them .

You love the ease that comes with my nature.

The utility of my service.

The reliability of my spirit.

The comfort of my hands.

You love me like a forgotten god whose texts have been destroyed,

offering occasional sacrifice, without ever knowing what I need.

--

You do not love me.

If you did, you would see the exhaustion.

If you did, you would care to listen.

If you did, you would have offered empathy.

You would have asked a question.

You would have paused to hear.

You would have poured even a fraction of what I have poured into you.

--

You don't love me;

Just the story I've written about you,

the way I carry the narrative that you stand at the center,

and I am just a side character in your visions of grandeur.

You are the hero; I am just the utility knife footnote,

an imprint of the chores and sacrifices you didn't need to make.

--

You don't love me.

You love what I do.

And while you'll miss your servant who bows in your presence,

you will never miss me if I go.