I feel like my entire life has been about falling
(falling in love, falling to pieces, falling down stairs, etc.).

When you're teetering on something precarious, like air,
people tell you not to look down,
not to open your eyes.

But I've gone a step beyond just shutting my eyes.
I keep my hands fastened over them,
as an extra layer of protection,
because I'm afraid if my contrary nature gets the best of me
and the screws holding my hands in place loosen,
I'll give in and take a peek,
peering up instead of down,

But I won't see a suspect looming over the edge of the cliff that last saw me grounded.
And the only culprit for my plunge...
...will be me.

I asked, "Should I shave?"
You said that you didn't care.
I said, "I love you."

When you're falling,
the wind is like an accomplice
that will tell onlookers that you're only crying
because it's battering your eyes.

They say that it's in the journey
and not the destination,

but what's the difference
between gliding
or plummeting

when the end goal is the pavement just the same?

I think I'd like to pick pocket your heart,
though the jury's still out on whether or not I'm keeping the contents.

Because I'm only reaching in there to confirm that your feelings are still home,
that somewhere in that torso of yours, your heart serves as more than a ****** conduit.

But before I could even brush against you to distract you,
I saw the "For Rent" sign stapled to your chest.
And when I knocked on your rib cage to place an inquiry,
I saw the fine print that read:
"Tourniquet Not Included".

But didn't anyone tell you that if you dam up your emotions,
they'll leak out and poison your brain?
That's why they say love makes you do crazy things,
and I don't know if I can stick around until you're certifiable.

I'm afraid I'm your
origami imitant,
your paper tiger.

Last weekend,
one of your friends called me your manic pixie dream girl.

So in the movie that is my life,
I'm not even the main character,
just the quirky sidekick to my male protagonist.

And it's probably my ego speaking,
but I don't think that's right.

And I don't think that I,
of all people,
should be the one showing you the beauty of a world
that I only see in kinetic blurs and swatches,
passing by me in my free fall from this life to the next.

Because I tried once to see the world without a filter,
but its stagnancy sent me in a downward spiral
and somehow I ****** you into it--
into me.

And I don't mean to be your whirlwind woman,
destined to spit you out--disoriented--
somewhere that you've never been before,
somewhere that no map ever cared to acknowledge,
somewhere stained with my essence,
my idiosyncrasies,
and your new found head trauma.

And you're a rational guy
and I'm an on again off again rational girl
who needs a little help stilling the edges of her narrative,
who longs for a tether or a buoy
to keep her from flying off or sinking down.

So maybe if you held my shoulders to stop me from spinning,
my vision would sober up,
and I'd focus solely on your curves and your angles
as they entered my retinas,
while the rest of the world behind you
faded into blurry suggestions
to be adhered to by someone who gave a **** about them

And after you wiped the puke from your shoes,
maybe you'd see me focused in your eyes
and maybe, just maybe...

...you'd just call me your dream girl.