I wanted you to love me
like a campfire,
like a warm blanket,
like a secret note,
a whisper in the night
that told me how special
I am to you,
how important,
how vital.

I wanted you to love me
like new snow,
like the smell after a
rainstorm,
when the streets are
washed clean,
and we would bask
in the halos of the
streetlamps,
holding hands and
smiling.

You loved me like barbed wire,
like a snare on a rabbit’s foot,
like a house fire,
all the mementos that didn’t burn
coated in a layer of ash,
of soot.

You loved me like a bomb shelter,
like a place safe from your explosions,
but barely so.

You loved me like sandpaper,
removing layers,
grinding,
removing,
until I became

unvarnished.

I wanted you to love me like silver,
like gold.

But, you loved me like tin.

I never knew what it was,
my sin.
I loved you, but you left.

You escaped,
unlike me,

untarnished.

*
- JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications; 2017