If I Let You

You look at me like I’m something worth saving, like I’m soft, not shattered. And I want to believe you. I want to fall into your arms without checking for the cracks underneath. I want to trust that you won’t change your mind once I stop being easy to love. But love has teeth, and I’ve been bitten before. Now every “I like you” sounds like a warning. You say I’m different. Say you’d never hurt me. But they all did— right before they did. I’m scared you’ll see the mess behind my eyes, the damage I don’t show, and decide it’s too much. I want you. I do. But I’m still healing from people who held me with hands that weren’t steady, from promises made with lips that only meant goodbye. So if I don’t run into your arms— please know it’s not because I don’t feel. It’s because I feel everything too deeply. And I’m just scared you’ll hurt me worse than I hurt now.