Dear you:

I am not your wild flower.

I am not the woman who dances like she’s on a trampoline and breaks her jaw laughing.

The woman who can be soft but flex her brow when she’s angry.

I am not your shooting star with a million dreams in her pocket.

Maybe there are only three. Maybe there are one million and one. I don’t know, and neither do or will you ever.

I’m not a fast passing woman walking down the street, strutting and whistling and snapping her fingers at cars.

I am sad. I am lazy. I am boring.

I am annoying and I am stupid and I am ugly.

Not all my flaws are interesting.

I am not your wild flower, I am not unpluckable, I am not untamed.

I long to be tamed, but I don’t want to be controlled.

I want to be loved, but I don’t want to be that loved.

I want a room of my own where I can love myself. I want a place in my mind where I don’t need you.

But I want to need you.

I need to be able to love other men freely — and I promise love without betrayal.

My arms stretch out a hundred times their size. My heart pumps blood for dozens of people. You need to be ok with that.

I promise to love you too much.

So much your love for me will be a flicker of light on a speck of dusk on a sesame seed compared to my love for you.

I promise to give you the chaos you seek.

But I just wanted you to know,

I am not your wild flower.

I am the jungle.