Most love poems ask to be let in. This one begs not to be sent away. The speaker is being told, it seems, that distance would be kinder: the other person has argued that staying close means "opening up the wound over and over again," and that "we're better off alone." The poem is her reply, and its central idea is a startling preference: she would rather keep hurting than stop feeling. "i'm scared that one day / i wont feel anything anymore" is the real fear here, much bigger than heartbreak.
The poem opens with an either/or: "either i love him with every ounce of blood inside of me / or i dont." There is no middle ground, and that explains why friendship is impossible for her. Her logic is emotional, not practical, and the poem never tries to be reasonable. One detail is worth noticing. She begins by speaking of "him," then slides into addressing "you." Judging by the text, she may start by diagnosing herself in the third person, as if explaining the problem to someone else, and only gradually find the nerve to say it to his face.
Blood and the body hold the poem together. First comes "every ounce of blood," then the "wound," then "my heart is on my sleeve / and i will bleed out on the floor." The wound belongs to the other person's argument, but she takes it over and turns it into proof of love. A wound that keeps reopening is painful, yet it means something is still alive. Numbness would be the scar that no longer feels the touch. The bleeding image is extreme, but it fits a speaker who admits she has no defences left.
Turning away is the second main image. She is "trying to learn how to turn my back on you," and she calls it "something i've never had to do to anyone." Against this she sets a face-to-face image: "please look at me in the eyes / and try to tell me to turn away." It is half a dare and half a plea, since looking someone in the eye while rejecting them is much harder than saying it from a distance. The line "so don't you dare ask me to do that to you / -someone i love" has an interrupting dash that sounds like a catch in the voice, as if she cannot let the sentence end without reminding him who he is to her.
The poem's best moment comes with "and if i'm honest here." After that, her wish becomes concrete. She has been "looking for you in crowds" and for "parts of you in other people," and she admits that substitutes fail. Then the lines grow into a list with no punctuation: "your problems / and your hopeless feelings / the nightmares / the trauma." The poem never says what these refer to, so we should not guess. But the way they pile up suggests she wants all of him, the painful parts included, which makes her love stubborn rather than flattering. The slightly tangled line "someone i want to put everything that i am into your hands" slips from "someone" to "your," and the grammar seems to buckle under the feeling.
The form supports all this. There is no rhyme and no regular metre, only short, speech-like lines, many of them end-stopped like separate declarations. The lowercase and the missing apostrophes ("dont," "wont," though "don't" and "i'm" appear elsewhere) give the impression of something written quickly, without polish. The byline looks like an online username, which fits that unedited feel, though it is only an impression. Repetition drives the ending: the title phrase returns as "don't you dare," then "don't tell me we're better off alone," and finally a bare "please don't." The anger drains away and leaves only the plea.
The poem matters because it doesn't resolve. It offers no healing and no wise acceptance, only a refusal, stated plainly. Its force comes from that honesty, and from the odd, uncomfortable idea that pain can be a form of loyalty.