Not like that

He doesn’t like that I pour. And pour. And pour. That I give every drop I have— and somehow, his cup never fills. It’s always half-empty, always waiting for more. And I keep giving, because maybe this time it’ll be enough. Maybe this time he’ll notice how much of me I’ve spilled into him. Maybe this time he’ll stop calling it too much, and start calling it love. But he doesn’t. And I keep trying anyway. Because I’m the kind of person who stays until she’s hollow, who loves until she’s dry, who apologizes for being human, for being late, for being slow, for being real. And maybe maybe that’s what he really doesn’t like. That I keep showing up as myself. Over and over. And he keeps wishing I’d stop