He will build you a liquid castle,
and you'll dive into it,
because you love shiny things.
We all do.

You'll swim the moat 'till the chlorine burns your eyes
and sears your liver 'till it doesn't hurt.
Then nothing will hurt
(and hurt and hurt and hurt)
as he tells you how beautiful you are
with your flushed face and mind
(and laugh and laugh and laugh).
When his breath warms the mortar on your neck,
your castle is on fire and it wasn't even yours.
The fire is sweet (and sweet and sweet).
He'll sink soft teeth into the balustrade,
whispering your drawbridge open.
You want (and want and want)
to embrace this siege:

Crumbling walls
mend
so
****
wonderfully
when you want them to.

Your crumbling castle
has kept you captive,
but you're freeing your feeling, feel your face;
your face is on fire but you're freed and falling
off the edge of even your edges,
and you'll land in the lava lining your lover,
but it heals you and he'll never know it.
You can forge your failures into ferocity here
and have him help if he's helpful,
have him leave if he leaves.
Only then will he know
you forged a castle of steel
under his archer's eye.

You
won
this
*battle.