You said you'd like to become a metaphor
but I had already known what you were.
You were a sturdy hearted hero,
a perfectionist,
an obsessive goodie-two-shoes,
who broke my heart
when you thought you weren't good enough.

You're words were well spoken and intended.
You seemed to have the world with your grasps.
You made me think I was imperfect,
thinking I was okay.
But what could I say that wouldn't
break you're soul more,
I would never know and I'm sorry.

I've written letters and notes encrypted in code,
the code I set the key for after spending days
trying to learn and seem intelligent.
I wrote down a full spiral set of notes
on messages
and keys and how to get places I wasn't meant to be.
I think I saw
I wasn't meant to be that close to you.

You are a metaphor.
You are a metaphor.
That is a metaphor.

Are you happy to be what you wanted to be?