A Fool and a Lover

I’ve always been too much of a giver, 

the kind who pours themselves into hands 

that never planned to hold anything at all. 

I mistake attention for love, 

kindness for forever, 

confusing being seen 

with being held tight. 

They say I love too easily-

maybe they’re right. 

I toss pieces of myself like scraps, 

hoping someone will finally say, 

you don’t have to earn this from me. 

But they never do. 

They take my offerings, 

call it beautiful until it becomes too heavy, 

too much. 

I’ve loved those who spoke in half-truths, 

who held me only when the room was dim, 

and let them stick labels on me, 

let them leave scars 

that never did heal right. 

Even still, I stayed-

said thank you for the tiny scraps of warmth 

they left, 

thanked them like a fool. 

Sometimes, I wonder if I love 

just to remind myself I still can, 

as if breaking my heart over and over 

is a kind of worship-

as if loving the unloving 

makes me something like sacred. 

There was one-

the one who made it all sharper. 

Her laughter filled the room, 

and I wrapped my days around its echo. 

She never promised me forever, 

but I crafted one in my mind, 

and when she walked away, 

I blamed myself for believing 

that wanting was reason enough to stay. 

Now I walk through every goodbye
like I’m retracing familiar streets,
knowing where the cracks are,
where the light fades first.
And still, I keep walking,
still, I keep loving-
because it’s the only thing
I’ve ever known how to do.

Maybe that’s what makes me foolish-
not the falling itself,
but the way I keep offering love
to those who never asked for it,
who never earned it,
who look at my outstretched hands
and see something just to take.
And I let them.
Every time.
Because I don’t know how to stop being the kind
who believes love is worth the pain,
even when it cuts deep.

Written by Annabelle Rose.