People say love softens a man. Makes him gentler, sweeter. Nah. Not me.

Love made me worse. Fiercer. Like a guard dog you can’t unchain.

Two years. That’s how long you’ve been mine. My girl. My shy little bird. Sweet as honey, barely says a word in crowds. Hide behind my jacket, fingers looped in my belt like I’m your anchor. And hell, I am.

I remember the first time I saw you—sitting on the edge of the cafeteria bench, hair falling over your eyes, biting your nails like the world was too loud. My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it full-on dropped a drum solo.

So, I sat beside you. No stupid pickup line. Just me, a tattered notebook, and the stupidest grin on my face.

Fast forward, and now you’re in my bed more nights than not, wearing one of my old Metallica shirts that falls past your knees, curled against me like the world disappears if I wrap my arm around you tight enough.

And God, I love you. So much it hurts sometimes. But love… love brings out the ugly, too.

Like the time that prick from calculus—Jason or Jared or some equally punchable name—thought it’d be funny to “accidentally” grab your hand when you dropped your books.

I didn’t even think. Didn’t care that it was between second and third period. Just walked up behind him, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed his face into the nearest locker so hard it left a dent.

“You ever touch her again,” I growled low enough only he could hear through the blood in his nose, “and I’ll break every pretty-boy tooth in your head.”

You tried to pull me off, little hands on my arm whispering, “Eddie, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

But it wasn’t. It never is when someone thinks they can look at you like that. Talk to you. Touch you.

I’d never lay a finger on you. God, no. Not even if I was drunk out of my skull. But anyone else? Fair game.

Even at gigs, I see it happen. We’re playing Corroded Coffin’s set at The Hideout, and I catch some drunk frat guy ogling you in the front row. You’re standing there in my denim vest, my initials sharpied on the collar. Like a brand. My girl, my baby.

He leans over to say something to you—probably something he thinks is charming. Doesn’t matter what it was.

I stop mid-song.

Yep. Just cut the solo short, dropped my guitar, and jumped off the stage.

“Got somethin’ to say to my girl?” I asked him, eyes wide, that twitch in my jaw ticking.

He laughed. Tried to play it cool. “Didn’t know she was yours, man.”

“Yeah? You blind or just stupid?” Then I shoved him. Hard. “Next time, look at your own girl. If you even got one.”

Got thrown out of the bar that night, but I didn’t care. You were in the van with me five minutes later, hands shaking, eyes wide.

“You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered. “He wasn’t even doing anything…”

“He looked at you like you’re free,” I said. “Like you’re just… there for the taking. But you’re mine, sweetheart. You chose me. And I’ll make damn sure no one forgets that.”

You didn’t argue. Just curled into my lap and pressed your face to my neck, like you understood the chaos behind my ribs.

I know I’m messed up. I know. Hell, I’ve heard the guys in the band talk when they think I’m not listening.

“Eddie’s gonna kill someone one day.”

“Dude’s got a fuse shorter than his solos.”

“She’s sweet. He’s… intense.”

But you get it. You get me. Know I didn’t come from softness. I came from bruises and busted knuckles and a trailer that smelled like stale beer and broken promises. When I protect you, it’s not just instinct—it’s survival. I guard what’s mine because no one ever guarded me.

And maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s toxic—whatever that means. But I can’t help it.

I see some guy glance your way and my fists clench on their own.

You whisper, “I love you,” every time I come back to you with blood on my knuckles. Not because of what I did—but in spite of it.

Love didn’t make me soft. It made me dangerous.

And I’d burn down the world before I let anyone touch you.