I think it may have gone wrong when I made my home inside of you, or when you made your home in me, curling up inside my chest like you belonged there (not that you don't).

I remember you hung your heartstrings on the ridges of my ribcage, folding yourself beneath the broken staircase of my spine, leaving handprints on my heart in the shape of your smiles, your curls, your eyes.

You fit (forced) yourself into my chest, where I think my heart is supposed to be, and moving everything around and fixing broken promises, intertwined with me like a vine around a tree trunk, fitting yourself to me like a ******* puzzle piece.

I think it went wrong the moment I started talking to you, but I'll still pretend you aren't wrecking me, because it is anything but futile. And you know I'll let you, as I always do (and I love you for it).