bare

i don’t want the version of you that everyone knows.

they can keep him.

the one who always fake a smile before anyone asks if he’s okay.

the one who says, "i'm fine," even when his eyes say otherwise.

the one who laughs a little louder just so no one notices how sad he really is.

i don't want him.

i want the one who goes quiet after a long day.

the one who stares at the ceiling because sleep won’t visit him.

the one who thinks too much.

the one who's convinced that carrying everything alone somehow makes him stronger.

come to me like that.

you don’t have to fix yourself first.

don't rehearse what you're going to say.

don't apologize if your voice shakes halfway through.

just come.

come close enough that i can brush the hair away from your eyes.

close enough that i can cup your face with both of my hands.

close enough that i can steal the weight from your shoulders, even if it's only for tonight.

and if your hands are trembling, let me hold them.

if your breathing falters, let me steady it.

if your eyes fill with tears, don't look away.

i'll wipe them away before they have the chance to fall.

lean into me.

let your forehead rest against mine.

let me kiss your forehead, your temple, and the ache you've been hiding behind your smile.

you don't have to make yourself easier to love.

you already have it.

tell me about the things you never say.

the people you still miss.

the dreams you quietly gave up.

the guilt that still follows you home.

the nights you stayed awake because your mind wouldn't let you rest.

tell me everything.

or tell me nothing at all.

we can just stay here until your heartbeat forgets what it feels like to race.

i don't want to save you.

i don't think love works like that.

but if the world has made you believe you always have to carry everything by yourself—

let me be the place where you finally don't.

and if one day you forget how to be gentle with yourself,

borrow mine.

i have enough for the both of us.