Please do not tell me that you’ve turned your back on “I am going to regret this, but I am not going to regret you.” I will admit that I have been jealous of every single woman you’ve been with and all the ones you could have chosen over me. I will admit that I have wished you never loved them. I will admit that I have never felt golden in anybody’s eyes, and even now, while your every breath confirms your faith in it, I don’t even feel safe. You see, I want to be reckless for once- reckless with hearts. Reckless with your heart. I want to prick you when you come close, I want you under the delusion that it’s worth it. I want to hurt you bad, and I want you thank me for it. I want you to worship me and never say a word of it, just show it. I want you to think that the sun shines on me when I’m vulgar, when I’m mercilessly critical of your morning ritual, when I’ve had it about to here of your nervous habits that others find charming, when I’m  sickandtired of “charming.” I want you to be astonished every day I’m still here, I want you to question what you did to make that happen, I want you to come to the conclusion that you’ve never done anything in your life good enough to deserve me, and I want you to believe in God because of that. Not because of my faith, my righteousness- but the fact that I am too good and the fact that I have stuck around when you have nothing to give me. I want you to be fragile under me, and weak like I have learned to be. I want to switch roles. I do not want to be the one who is constantly afraid of the love of my life leaving me. I do not want to be pathetic. I do not want to be disposable. I do not want to be who I have made myself to be in your eyes. Please do not forget that you once saw this wreckage of a human, and called her golden. Please do not forget the wonder you experienced when you first saw the broken pieces, when you put them together and tried to fit in the places I didn’t even know were missing. Please do not betray your first promise- do not regret me. Please, please do not be ashamed of loving a shell, and please do not find fault in me for thinking the world of you because of it. Please do not leave me with, “I am attracted to broken things.” Do not do this to me. Do not do this to me. Can you imagine the state of me if you do? Who will want me when you’re through with me? I will never be able to recover. I will never be able to rise up, and no one will ever be able to recognize the pieces then. I will be entirely unlovable then. It will be all your fault that I’ll be beyond repair, and I will be too defeated to blame you. I would be so broken I’d thank you.