“No, I like you for so much more,” he said. But how could he like me for more, when he only asked for less?
More. What a word.
I’ll never be more because you lie when you say you want that.
Your cravings aren’t for more of me, more of my story that I wish impatiently to share. You crave this image of my body, but that is not more; it’s less. It is less of who I am, it is less than my soul, it is less of my spirit, my mine, my heart.
It is less of me.
You don’t like me for so much more. You like less of me. You like to look at the cover, but you don’t want to read the pages inside. You don’t like me for more.
You don’t like me for me.