Being loved is a weird thing.

I never truly understood it.

Watching my closest friends celebrate,

four months,

six months,

one year.

It always feels that people

don’t want to stick with me for too long.

Not only with romantic endeavors

but even friendships too.

The same gutting feeling,

Cutting me open like a pumpkin,

pulling out the stringy insides,

and forcing me to carve a silly smile on my face.

In movies and books, it looks so easy.

Be gentle and kind and sweet and pretty,

and people will fawn to you,

crackling fire smiles at the sight of you.

Warm hands burn fingerprints into your skin.

My arms and hands remain cold,

as I continue to search through the ocean

trying to find the last remnant that lay at the bottom

stuck in the sand, eroded over time.

The thing for me.