If he comes,
he better come gently.
Not afraid of the sharp parts,
but careful with them.
Like someone who knows
what it means to bleed.

I’ve had enough of almost.
Enough of love
that only holds me
when it’s convenient.
I want someone who stays
when the room goes quiet.

He better be good to me—
because I’ve already been
too good to people
who weren’t ready.
I gave them softness
they mistook for weakness,
let them rest in my warmth
while they grew cold.

This time,
I’ll open the door slow.
I’ll ask questions.
I’ll listen to the silence
between his answers.

And if he wants to be here,
he better mean it.
He better see all of me—
not just the parts that shine
when the lights are on.

Because I’m not afraid to be alone.
I’ve made peace with that.
But if he comes,
he better come
ready
to be good
to me.

Not just in words—
in the way he looks at me
when I’m not looking.
In how he holds me
when I can’t hold myself.