I forgot how to want
because wanting hurts.
Because every "I need you" I whispered
was met with silence first.
Love?
It never stayed long enough to feel.
It came with conditions,
with masks, with deals.
They loved me
when I was useful,
when I gave,
when I fixed what they shattered,
when I smiled and behaved.
They remembered me
when their world went wrong
when they needed soft arms,
when they craved my song.
But care?
I gave it like breath,
and received it like debt.
Never offered freely
always a bet.
These emotions
love, care, need
they're luxury to me,
and I was raised on the scraps
of what they let me see.
So I stopped wanting.
Not because I healed,
but because begging
for what should be real
felt more painful
than never feeling it at all.
Now when someone says,
"Tell me what you need,"
I laugh
because I forgot.
I forgot how to want
without bracing for pain,
without waiting for the love
to vanish again.