#1 and #2 an original poem about my marriage

I married one man—
but I live with two.

#1
packs my lunch in the quiet morning,
like love can be folded into small things—
a sandwich, a note, a moment of care
before the day even begins.
He’s there when the world feels too heavy,
when I come home worn down and unraveling.
His words feel like milk and honey,
soft enough to steady me,
sweet enough to remind me who I am.
He is my best friend,
my person—
the one who makes me feel chosen
without having to ask.

#2
can turn in an instant—
a voice that rises too fast,
too sharp,
filling the room before I can catch up.
And sometimes it’s quieter,
the kind of words that sink in deeper—
comments that stick to my ribs,
about what I forgot,
what I did wrong,
what I should be better at by now.

And somehow, over time,
I start to believe him.

#2
makes me question everything—
if I’m smart enough,
if I’m pretty enough,
if I’m funny the way #1 swears I am.
He takes all the things
#1 loves about me
and turns them into doubts
I carry alone.

And somewhere in the middle of it all,
I feel the weight of this ring—
not just a promise,
but something heavier now.

This ring feels like a ball and chain,
not because I don’t remember
why I said yes—
but because I don’t know
which version of you
I’m bound to.

I keep reaching for #1
like he’s still the whole truth,
like he’s enough to hold onto.

But I keep shrinking around #2,
piece by piece,
until I don’t recognize myself
without him.

Because the hardest part isn’t loving you—

it’s not knowing
which one of you
I’m waking up to.