Know that I don’t start this by addressing it to the next man who loves me because I want to always speak to you with honesty, and if it’s honesty I am giving you then know you will be the first man to truly love me. At least it’s my dream that when I’ve placed my heart in someone’s hands again it will be in the open palms of someone with open arms wanting me to also excavate that precious thing out of their chest.
When you tell me you love me, know that I’ve heard those words before come from lips laced with disloyalty and dishonesty. That I’ve only ever heard them as an apology, as a way back in, as cauterization to wounds acquired when I’ve been thrown out to the wolves or been laid down to bleed. Know that my hesitation and difficulty to believe doesn’t mean that I’m comparing you to any men from my past, or doubting the light escaping the corners of your mouth when you say these words. No, it’s so much more than having been let down so many times before.
When you hold me and tell me you love me all I’ll be able to think is why. Be patient with me, too often I’ve had to apologize for who I am. I used to be tender and soft, there was a time all my heart and soul were was silk. But I grew thorns long before my first heartbreak, and ever since I can remember I’ve been seduced by a special kind of darkness – my limbs intertwined with melancholy’s every now and then.
Know that I am everything you fell for, all the light you saw in me is there, but there are days I am too big of an eclipse for you to be able to find it. There will be days all I am is the broken pieces that haunt me, days where that light you love will have a hard time escaping through the fractures. There’s days not even the heat of the sun could warm up my heart.
I need a soul who can see past the pain in mine, who never views my flaws as wrongs or lashes out at my imperfections. A heart that loves my bleeding heart and uses the crimson shades to paint me beautiful. I don’t need to be mended, I want a love who puts their lips to all the raven dripping from my edges and only tastes the stars of the midnight sky. I want you to touch me and bleed on all my thorns but still look at me and adore each petal.
Know that I write poetry. It’s who I’ve always been. But my rawest words aren’t usually shared. Know that I write more words that can scare you than I do about beautiful things. But, oh, how I hope you’ll be that muse that brings back color and beauty to all of my pages. I want to read every ugly thing and every pretty thing to you.
I’ve handed out pieces of myself like party favors to those who did not deserve a taste. I have loved before, and I have loved hard, and all I ever got were scars. So please be patient with me if I flinch when you touch me with more than hands, like ice coming into contact with them.
Know that I don’t ever feel anything halfway. I don’t ever just put my feet inside the water, I go all in, and if I drown, I drown. If you’re going to love me, you’re going to have to let me do the same the only way I know how. I’ve always been “too much” for most. Too much passion, too much feeling, too much intensity, too many thoughts and too many words. I know no other way. I’ve got too much fire coursing through my veins, so don’t say you love me if you’re not prepared to come into contact with my flames. But if you let me, I’ll use them to burn poetry on your skin with my fingertips. If you let me I’ll write you the grandest tale you ever did read. If you let me, it’ll be the most ethereal and sweltering thing you ever did feel.
To the next man I love: I really hope you love me back. 
