I’m a Romantic.

I’m a romantic. I believe in the hard, true struggle of waking up each morning and choosing the sprawled body next to you over and over again.

I’m a romantic because I am built to last.

I’m a romantic because I didn’t throw away your Grandma’s funeral program even though she never bothered to learn my name. I’m a romantic because I will probably never throw away the way my heart smiled when you teased me.

I am your formaldehyde.

I’m a romantic because I press away pieces of myself into the folds of my skirt. Like my grandfather at buffets.

I am a bookshelf of you. I am the American Civil War, I am the Roosevelts, I am Hannibal, I am nonfiction, I am your truth.

I’m a romantic because I will always hold some piece of your self-worth, in case you forget.

I’m a romantic because by the time I am done with this dance, I will hold so many lovers’ self-worth, I will have forgotten my own.

I am Nero fiddling while Rome burns.

I’m a romantic because I’d rather see my pride broken in the pools of your eyes than look at my soft rotting flesh in the mirror.

A girl holding herself up from frail bones, asking, ‘when?’

You are my formaldehyde.

I haven’t read a book in ages.