Saint Dirty Face

Some people want the easy version of you.

The Sunday-best, polite-smile, “I’m totally fine” version.

Cute.

But that’s not love.

That’s customer service.

My demons?

They don’t flinch when the lights go out.

They don’t ask me to smile more.

They know every scar, every midnight spiral, every “don’t text anyone, just breathe” night.

And they stayed.

They whisper, “We know you. All of you. And we’re not leaving.”

So if you say you love me —

don’t just love the parts that photograph well.

Love the part of me that’s still fighting.

Love the exhaustion and the hunger and the wildfire in my ribs.

Love the version of me that’s sharp, messy, insecure, glorious, quiet, furious, hopeful.

Love me like my demons do.

With familiarity.

With loyalty.

With no fear of the dark.

Because real love isn’t soft.

It’s honest.

It’s unpretty.

It’s two damaged hearts saying, “Screw it—let’s try anyway.”

Stay Dirty. Stay Human.™