To Be Quite Honest

When you asked me, my dear,
what I would choose to bring if I had to
spend a night in the forest and
the choices were a blanket, s'mores, a gun, or you,
I didn't choose you because I felt some burning passion.
It was so we could take turns keeping watch for bears.

And when you go on about how smart I am, my love,
I only feel more pressure to live up
to the unreachable standards
you keep on unintentionally imposing on me.
And I want to run, to escape,
to fade back to the background.

And when you tell me how pretty I am, min älskling,
I become sad, because that's part of how you judge
who you would want to date
and it makes me feel pressured to
hold myself to a higher standard
based on how I look.

And when you call me kind, my Wesley,
I feel like a fraud, an imposter, a fake because
my thoughts are hopeless and morbid
devoid of strong emotions
and in my core
I am stone.

And when you say you love me, my sky,
it only makes me sad. Not even
the deep, gut wrenching sadness
that people write about.
Just mildly disappointed.
Because I don't feel anything.