I'll never forget the day you taught me that tender words fall into violent jabs when we say each others name. I hope that you never forget the way I've turned myself into more of a paradox than an obstacle, and how i envision myself as quicksand. I could be something like a bee, endangered and wild, but I've stung you too many times for my metaphor to still hold meaning.
The bees are only in my head, buzzing and stinging the softest parts, but i want you to know i'm still Blank Verse; I'm not made of pretty rhyme or reason, but I'll glue myself into a structured iambic pentameter just for you. Every night i ask my dream catcher to take the bad away, but I still dream of Novocaine and the feeling that comes with it.

You don't have a dream catcher so it can't keep me away, but please don't dream of me— or at least don't tell me if you do.