You frighten me.
Plain and simple, I am frightened.
I have a briefcase full of fear,
that I have packed so tight,
that I could not possibly fit one more worry inside.
that if I tried,
it would burst open and spill all over the ground.
Exposing me again, in ways I've long ignored.
I am afraid you will be fickle,
that you will grow bored with me,
and resign me to a shelf of fond, forgettable, memories.
I am not suited to being a suitor.
I am afraid I will frighten you,
that a certain look or a touch,
will send me screaming and cowering,
and having seen that part of me,
you will turn away.
I am not without such insanity.
I am afraid you will move too quickly,
burn me for warmth,
before finding new kindling,
and leaving me thin and grey like smoke.
I am not a cigarette, nor a burning filter.
I am afraid I will drive you away,
when my heart is heavy,
and my fortunes fall,
and I cannot see the sun for the clouds.
I am not without such storms.
I am not afraid that you will hurt me.
There is no need to fear certainty.
So let me be clear,
you will hurt me.
I am prepared to hurt.
I am a hand that feels the first warmth of spring,
after being clasped in prayer,
after a long winter spent on my knees.
When feeling returns, it hurts.
Always and inevitably.
The hurt is needed to get blood flowing again.
So forgive me, should I call you pins and needles.
However, I am one well acquainted with hurt.
I do not break easily.
But, please, do not take this as an invitation
to bend, spindle, or mutilate.
While my flesh may cover for me,
I carry many scars,
and do not forget them easily.
I do, however, have a profound capacity for forgiveness.
Even if I forget it at times.
Like I forgot that my heart is made of fire.
Like I forgot that my eyes are full of stars.
Like I forgot that my mind contains multitudes.
Like I forgot that I know how to speak
with my fingers
and my toes.
But you have an art about you.
You are drawing me (closer).
I am drawn.
You are a mystery,
that I promise I will not try to solve,
although I may dismantle the etymology of our conversations.
You are snowflakes on my tongue,
that I want to melt on your inner thigh.
You are delight and delirium,
decadence drizzled down with dew.
You are the roots entwined
in the gaps between your fingers
You are the ocean echoing
inside of your ribcage
(thanks for that one e.e.cummings)
You are my gut screaming at my brain
in gibberish sounds I barely comprehend.
You are a word that almost sounds like home,
a forest, a clear view of the city, a flower, wreathed in flame,
a cat with a story for each life, a joke forgotten, a sigh remembered,
warm hands, milk chocolate, three dances, one just made up,
laughter under teary eyes, *** under starry skies, hamburgers with eggs,
four weeks and three days, or was it nine weeks and five days,
and more and more and more and so much more.
I want you to see that I am full of scripture,
that I burn so God has something to read at night.
I want you to kiss me when the lights go out,
and not stop until the candles burn blue.
I want you to look in my eyes, and see
the world as it must look from heaven.
I want you to pull open my ribcage,
and start my heart beating again.
I want you to breathe fire into my lungs,
so I have no choice but to dance, and spit, and shout.
I want you to show me my hands are not for eating ash,
nor my mouth for vomiting ink onto the page.
I want you to see a constellation in my skin,
that you trace until it is tattooed to my bones.
I want you to sing me lullabies at dawn,
after I've been up all night painting the wind.
But I am not one for glorifying forever,
and you are not one for begging promises.
Thus, I am frightened.
and I am alive.