I want to love you, but loving you is like trying to shove everything I own into a box. Not everything can fit into the perfect mold you want me to be.

You call me “beautiful,” but the word doesn’t feel like a compliment – it feels like a prescription. I feel myself trying to fit this label you’ve placed on me. I squirm when you look at me now, hoping despite myself that you will love me for my flaws so I can stop worrying about being beautiful. Whatever that word means.

When you said you loved me, it was another label. I recognized that. It was another attempt at trying to pin down a moment. Your hands were in my hair. We were in the slender hour of twilight. Something in your face suddenly broke and I saw the child in you. It lasted only a moment, but I saw. Then you said those words and my world just stopped. Fear trickled down my spine.

Love is such a slippery word. It is so easy to lose your balance on it. So easy to exchange meaning for hope. And my coordination was never that great to begin with.