I feel like I’m made of eggshells. The broken pieces fall to the floor for you to tiptoe around. Sometimes I throw them like confetti, other times a bomb.
One misstep—one piece crushed under your heel or gently brushed by your foot—sounds an alarm. Sometimes nothing happens and you exhale with relief.
Other times I become a tearful, insecure nightmare asking why you don’t love me, even though you’ve loved me deeply and passionately for years.
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