When you loved me, you would ask if I was okay -
back when you loved me to the moon and back.
You would call me these silly names and you would annoy me with so many messages;
I'd feel bombarded, yet safe.
As if you would protect me from all the malice the world held alongside the oxygen I was happy to share with you.
When you loved me to the moon and back.
You'd wake me up and we'd spend the morning getting dressed,
laughing at each other and you'd admire my body in such a way that it made my skin long for your touch.
As if I were the most beautiful thing you'd seen, though it was springtime and nature was soon to blossom.
You loved me to the moon and back.
But I began to change,
being friendly to others; my loyalty making you question if losing me was worth losing your sanity.
I wasn't the same nerd who played video games and stayed isolated from the world.
It was a shift in my movements, sudden, yet it proved I was damaged inside.
Anger blossomed in my heart like the nature you compared me to.
The beauty you saw in my ruined by razors pressed against my thin, virgin skin because my insecurities was something was something I was working on.
The sexual tension between us slowly fading because the nature you'd compare me to was beautiful, not flawed, like me.
I was a wilted rose.
Communication declined and argument became frequent.
Anxiousness withered over me.
The need to talk to you.
To see you.
Laugh with you.
Love you to the moon and back.
My insecurities bursting through my ribs because the weight I'd gain wouldn't make me look like the girls you'd posted, the girls you'd found attractive.
Like nature, not scarred, like me.
The moon is 238,900 miles away and yet I still love you to the moon and back, because no one has seen my spring and my fall