I can't.
Its complicated.

She knows too much already,
She's watched every error,
Every fall.

My victories pale in comparison,
To the ever growing list of failures
She has lived through.

I am afraid to give her this.
This flesh of mine,
This soft underbelly I've kept hidden.

What if she's proud of me?
What if she's not?

What if she just sighs
And my whole world shatters?
What if she laughs and I am
Reduced to nothingness?
Worst of all, what if she doesn't care?

What if the softest parts of me don't matter?
What if she just pushes it aside,
And I am ten again
Wondering how hard I'll have to work
To be worthy of someone so glorious?

I am covered in scars from her dissatisfaction,
This is all thats left unmarked.
So I cant show this to my mother.
I just cant.

It is a slight sip at first.
Wetting the tongue and
Soothing the throat.

But soon you are taking big gulps,
Forcing yourself to choke down the frustration
That tries to push its way past your throat.

Now you are drowning
In an ocean of your virtue.
Stomach bloated from
All your long-suffering.

"Have you had your fill yet?"
They'll ask you.
"No, no, there's always room for more."

I'm older now,
And the drink is far too bitter.
It tastes of pain and anger and sadness.
I don't think I could manage a single sip.

There is something about the way living things love.

How a tree can be cut down a thousand times
Yet as long as the roots remain,
It will find a way to reach for the sun.

I wonder if that is what I am to you,
A tree you will cut down a thousand times.
But my roots go far too deep to ever die out.

I wish you weren't so radiant.
I wish my branches would stop growing,
Would stop desperately reaching for you.

There is something about the way living things love.
I'm still deciding whether I like it or not.

If a thousand sing of your beauty,
Know that I am the loudest voice.
If a hundred praise your strength,
I will be counted amongst them.
If only ten speak of your heart
Then I pray that I am at least the tenth.
And if only one knows your soul
Then call me One even after I am gone.
And if no one can say they love you
Then I have long since turned to dust.

You may try to **** me if you wish.
But as long as you breathe,
My love will remain and then,
I will never truly die.

To call it lust would be too carnal.
It is too meaningless of a word.
Would you tarnish your very home,
The way we tarnish ourselves with desire?

To call it obsession is too base.
As though obsession could drive me
To meet each hair upon your head,
And never tire till I know them all by name.

To call it love would not be enough.
The word cannot bear the weight
of the living thing in me,
That only beats because of you.

If my tongue knew how to shape itself
Around the feeling that consumes me,
Then I would speak words that no man
Has ever heard before or ever will again.