Open letter to love

So, this is what it's come to,
my dear? Is this what you want--
more hurt to top what's there?
You long for the boy, I know.
Do you really want him, though,
to take your soul
along with your confidence,
to leave in its place a new,
irreversible circumstance?
Do you think the latter is 
wherein lies the bond, or
do you not care where the bond lies?
You must feel it's the closest to love for you,
his ravaging you--that it would
somehow work for you. Perhaps,
you think, if you ire him enough,
if you push him to the precipice, eventually,
he'd take what he wouldn't before.
He'd leave you his touch--
destructive and painful, but
a touch nonetheless.
Desperation has caused you
to see tragedy as a solution--
the rape, then the baby, would
fill the void.
He'd hurt me, you'd think,
but at least I would feel him.
At least I'd have part of him.
I'd have a chance.
Better than none...right?...
You want a bond, I get it.
Abuse is not bonding, though.
That much I can tell you.
I once nearly felt this bond
you have in mind, from a stranger--
too much panic, and
I would have felt death.
You don't want death.
You don't want danger.
What you want is love.
True love comes without hurt.
It comes without danger,
without death; instead, it offers
something far better,
a feeling of knowing
that you are enough--
no, more than enough,
a reflection of God, worthy
of more than the bruises
you daydream of, more than
the violation you hope would lead
to the affection you desire.
This love is what you need, my dear.
This love is what you are.