I am entirely stitched out of mistakes and good intentions,

The things I meant to say (but didn't because I didn't want to hurt your feelings) and the things I wish I could take back and the things I wish I had said but the moment passed. How if I had done it again, I would have told you how you broke me with your tongue like a whip and your words like fire. How I would have told you that this lukewarm love is not okay, never was okay and will never be okay. How I would have told that regardless of how you feel, I am enough. How I would not have replied to your apologies with "It's okay" when we both knew that when you put her above me, again and again and again and again, it was not okay. 

These things are called regrets. These things make a man bitter and angry, and I don't want to be bitter and angry... but these things also make a man shy. Once (or several times) bitten, twice (or several more times) shy. 

Now my heart is not on my sleeve, or on my cheek, or in your hand. Now my heart is behind my ribcage, my words a battalion behind my lips, ready and waiting to tear a man down at my command. 

They say that hell hath no fire like that of a woman scorned, then perhaps the devil may think of me as his competition. I have gotten so used to the fire in my veins, I have fooled myself into thinking it is blood. And I taste blood. I taste the blood of every bitten lip and of every stifled cry and of every word I swallowed that ripped its way through my cheek to land on your ear. I am scorned. 

Understand then, that when men come knocking at the door of my ribs, mocking smiles pinned hastily to their masks, I have turned them all away. I have rolled up my welcome mats, and turned out the lights in the front window, locked my doors and am inside sleeping. Resting. Waiting for the day when the man I haven't met, comes to my door, weary and apologetic—sorry for showing up so late, but his tire was flat and he's walked miles to get here because a lady waits and he has kept her waiting long. 

When he comes, may I have scrubbed the blood from under my nails and washed my hands clean until the water runs clear and sandpapered the notches from my heart and I am ready to be loved. 

...but until then, may I live in such a way—with walls up, treasure guarded and eyes and hands cold—so as to scare off the jackals and the vultures, to turn away the scavengers, to invest solely in the garden of potential growing in my chest and between my legs. May I live in such a way that regrets are few, but nuggets of wisdom many that I may be the woman, the queen, the king, the empress that both He, and I... and he, when he comes (eventually, hopefully), can love.