Not like that

Or when I get quiet because I can feel his disappointment before he even says a word. He doesn’t like me in the mornings. When I’m half-asleep and grumpy, when the light’s too loud, when my words come out like gravel instead of silk. He doesn’t like me when I’m hungry either— I get sharp then, irritable, too human. I say things I don’t mean and he takes them all personally. He doesn’t like that I worry. That I look at his phone when he turns away. That sometimes I wonder if he’s thinking of someone softer, someone prettier, someone who doesn’t flinch every time love sounds like leaving. He doesn’t like that I don’t always feel like touching, that sometimes my body feels too heavy, that I love him with my mind before I can love him with my skin. He doesn’t understand that love isn’t always lust, that wanting someone doesn’t always mean right now. He doesn’t like that I hate going to work. That I drag myself through it anyway, clock in with tired eyes and clock out with tired bones, just so we can have enough. Enough food. Enough rent. Enough to say we’re doing okay, even when we’re not.