I am small like a child,
wet face pressed
against a massive chest.
His arms crush me gently,
wrap me in a shroud
of sinew and bone
as the smell of bourbon
and musk fills my nostrils.
His breath feathers lightly
across the top of my head;
reassuring whispers
tickle my spine
and tell me
I am not wicked,
I am not a useless, hopeless thing.
I am perfect and flawed.
I am loved.
It is enough.