The Way I Break Things

She tells me she loves me, but I see the way her hands hesitate, hover in the air before they touch me, like she’s afraid I might crack beneath them. I know what she means when she asks, "Are you okay today?" She’s not asking about today. She’s asking if I’ll disappear into my head again, if my silence will feel like a locked door, if I’ll forget how to laugh. I try to explain, but words crumble. How do you tell someone you love them when half the time you don’t even like yourself? She tells me I’m not too much, but I see the way she exhales when I finally smile, like she’s been holding her breath, waiting to see if today is a good day or a heavy one. I love her, I do. I just don’t know how to stop making her wonder if I’ll be whole tomorrow.