Washed out

I like to believe I’m loyal,
hence why I stay around you for so long.
I like to believe I’m good,
that is why I sacrifice my comforts for you.
I like to believe I might be too much,
and that is why I ask you if I can sit before I take a seat.

See, I’ve learnt a lot in my twenty years.
To be with you,
my silence and tolerance must prelude me.
That to have a space on this vast world,
conformity is all I have to do.
To be a spectacle worth watching,
I have to be the jester at your court.

My worth is measured by you in the whiles we’re together.
My joy is initiated by you in the space you allow me a pinch of you.
My pain is measured by you in the moments you push me away.
My love is infinite,
my soul a black hole that sucks in all,
wants all,
covets all of you.

I like to believe I’m unlovable.
I either hide it in false bravado,
or sometimes I fail to completely.
The voices,
loud and repetitive drum and nail,
drum and nail,
till all positive affirmations turn to fine print and my short sighted eyes can’t read.

I like to pray I’ll be lovable,
and one day I won’t have to sit on the edge of a sofa,
afraid to ask for water.
And one day I won’t have to measure my worth,
because it will be immeasurable.
I won’t have to wonder if I’m lovable or not,
I know I will be.
I won’t have to count my joys or pains on you.

And for every quarter I give,
you will give.
My humour will be understandable,
my love language attainable,
my love will still be infinite.