I keep my poems about you in my drawer.
For, my feelings are stitched into pieces
as delicate as the fabrics I adorn.
Should I free them from the wooden box?
It’s easier to tuck my written infatuations between my worn socks.
Should I cover them up like clothes I use
to cloak my skin?
Tends to be it’s scarier to bare your soul
than your flesh.
So I hide secret love letters
among cheaply sown mesh—
long sleeves, cropped tank tops,
skirts, and pants;
All the clothing one could think up.
Too scared to seem foolish,
but I truly am head over heels.
Thus, I stay on the brink of becoming bold enough to tell you all that I feel,
or playing it cool;
and keep pushing all that stuff down deep in
my dresser.
Apr 5
Apr 5, 2026 at 12:17 PM UTC
I keep my poems about you in my drawer.
For, my feelings are stitched into pieces
as delicate as the fabrics I adorn.
Should I free them from the wooden box?
It’s easier to tuck my written infatuations between my worn socks.
Should I cover them up like clothes I use
to cloak my skin?
Tends to be it’s scarier to bare your soul
than your flesh.
So I hide secret love letters
among cheaply sown mesh—
long sleeves, cropped tank tops,
skirts, and pants;
All the clothing one could think up.
Too scared to seem foolish,
but I truly am head over heels.
Thus, I stay on the brink of becoming bold enough to tell you all that I feel,
or playing it cool;
and keep pushing all that stuff down deep in
my dresser.