Ephemeral Heartache

How far must I go for love? How much of myself must I erase before I am worthy of staying? I love you more than I love myself. Is that enough? No. I'll be better. Skinnier, prettier, quieter, a reflection of what you desire, not what I am. Is this love? Do I even know what love is? Should it leave me hollow when you inevitably go? If love is real, should it ache like this? Should it make me feel like a body, a shell, a desperate reaching hand? Is it love, or anxious attachment? Will you leave if I ask too much? If I speak too loudly? If I am too much of myself? I hold onto every scrap of affection, a touch, a glance, a lingering word, proof that, for now, I am not alone. That, for a moment, I exist to you. I shrink myself, fold into quiet spaces, make myself small enough to fit inside the cracks of your indifference. I rewrite my laughter, soften my voice, trim the edges of my thoughts until they no longer cut too deep. Will I ever be enough to make you stay? Or am I destined to be temporary, a fleeting thought, a half-forgotten dream? I have spent years learning to be less, but even in my smallest form, I am still too much. Do I deserve love, or only the pieces I beg for? Will my life always mirror the way I see myself, fractured, incomplete, unworthy? Or am I chasing a ghost, calling out for a love that does not exist, at least, not for me? I tell myself to stop waiting, to stop shaping myself into something that might finally be enough. But how do you unlearn a hunger that has always gone unfed? How do you convince yourself that you are worthy of love when love has never known your name?