I once said that I loved you despite your shortcomings.

Despite the drinking that drives me insane with worry on the weekends. Despite the hatred you concentrate on yourself alone. Despite your heart. Your heart broken too many times to sew together again.

And yet I don’t love you that way. Despite of those things. Despite of anything.

There’s something lovely about the scars. Lovely because they are part of you. Lovely because, despite your own wishes, your soul can’t be stopped.

I find fragility in the words you slur to me on Friday nights. When you tumble into my bed with flushed cheeks, scraggly hair. I cradle you in my arms and try to ignore the salt of dried tears that my lips discover across your face.

Saturday mornings find you groggy and sheepish. Your eyes droop and your head dips and your hair slips into your coffee. Black. No sugar. No cream.

I’ll laugh at that. You’ll laugh back. We both hide the pain that holds us in this pattern.

My hands dance across your hips, your stomach, the soft curve of your neck when you go to leave.

Stay safe.

You’re a hazard to yourself.

I made rules for myself, when I was idealistic and two innocent months younger. Dictated the type of person I would allow myself to fall for.

Then you tripped into my life, scattering rules and forcing me into a fall.

Rules broken, there’s no place for that word. Despite.

Despite of what?

You are real and broken and flawed. You embrace it. You are strong for it.

You’re a hazard to my heart.