i don't know,
how to write you in a way,
that makes you as safe as my childhood home.
i can cover you in a blanket of verbs,
i can shroud you in adjectives until it hurts,
i can fill you with nouns until you feel chained to the ground.
it seems as if there isn't even one thing i'm incapable of doing,
and then you ask me to paint you pretty.
with what, darling?
i made your eyes out of all the monstrous things i've seen,
and your legs from the darkest places i've been.
i crafted your bones out of the metal that used to cling to my teeth,
and your blood from the multicolored ink that helped me write all my gut-wrenching things.
i gave you a heart from the graveyard down the street,
and your eyes from the streetlights where we used to meet.
i formed your feelings from the jar of fireflies atop my dresser,
and your lips from the secrets i held with my english professor.
aren't you pretty?
because you look beautiful to me.
*(even if i shaped you from all my worst qualities)