reading room
How Do You Want Me?
I ask, and you say: "Just be yourself." As if I haven't spent years twisting into versions of me you might want.
I hold your hand.
And wonder if I'm too much— or not enough.
You say, "continue as normal," but normal, for me, is overthinking until my chest hurts.
I want to know if you want me to speak softer, or lead louder; to chase you in silence or wait in the open.
Do you want me unfolded and tender? Or wrapped in riddle and edge? Do you want a fire to warm you or a forest to lose you?
Do you want me to tease and surprise you, or be calm, reliable, the one who always texts back?
You say, "nothing's wrong." But if nothing's wrong, why do I feel like a lock with no key?
I love you. That's the part I know. But loving without instructions feels like trying to dance to music I can't hear— scouring your texts for clues I can't decode.
Tell me, how do you want me?
Because I'm trying to be myself— but I don't know which self is still mine after so many years of trying to be what you need.
— Lilith