My calloused hands are proof of my love
My stretched tummy gifted him his best gifts
My ever aching back borne his many burdens
The burns on my hands cooked him love.
Is constant PDA and sexy dresses the only form of love?
Is a 28-inch size needed to be loved?
Is his love dependent on the shade of my lip?
Why, then why, does he love other things/people more?
My balding head speaks of my hours of toil
Just to provide for her and the little ones
My aching hands have lifted kilos of shopping
My tears and worries I hid in the bathroom
I bought her trinkets just to see her pretty again
I got her the latest fashion not to shame but to take her along the way the world's going
What more need I do to get her love?
Is it a 56-inch chest?
Or is it the zeroes in the paycheck?
The journey of love that we started together
We continue, feeling unloved in love,
Hoping for that fairytale love that marriage promised.
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