There's always something you want to change about me. My nails are too long, or you don't like the boots I'm wearing, or my fast-paced life stresses you out. You don't want me to cross my legs under the table. You don't want me to take the shortcut through the woods. You get upset if I brush up against another person.

There's always something that pushes you to breaking point. And it's always, somehow, my fault.

I have tried time and time again to take care of you. I have been gentle with you, loving, poured my heart and soul into making sure that you are safe and comfortable. I have cried over you. I have bargained with you. I have trusted you, and I have spent countless moments with my head in my hands, regretting that trust. I have let you ruin so many of my days. You are supposed to make me feel beautiful. You are supposed to make me feel confident, and sexy, and warm. You are supposed to be there for me in my time of need. You are supposed to support me.

And you never do. All you do is let me down. All you do is tear apart at the seams day after day and leave me to clean up the mess.

I have tried to be with others. I have tried to change my life, be gentler, try something else on for size. But even though you hurt me, even though I can't bring myself to trust you anymore, nothing else works the way you do. Nothing else fits me the way you do. Nothing else complements me the way you do, and that's why I can't figure out why you do this to me.

I shave my legs. I apply lotion. I keep my toe- and fingernails trimmed. I pull you gently from my dresser, roll the leg to the toe, and slip my foot in with a surgeon's precision. And still, by the time I have you pulled up to my thigh, there's already a run in your sheer fabric. Did I do something to deserve this? Did I offend the ancient god of pantyhose, leaving me doomed to find tears and holes in all of my tights? Is this because of my affair with thigh-high socks? Why can't we all just coexist peacefully? Why can't you just let me look like a put-together grown-up for once, instead of a 20-something coming home from a bar fight or a walk of shame? Why, why, why must you call it quits so easily?

I'm still here. I'm still waiting for an answer. Because I don't trust you, but I love you, and you fight for what you love. I am fighting for you. Please, for once, pull through.