I tell myself I'm done until you say that you are not

Maybe I've always had trouble trusting others because I couldn't trust myself. I always claimed to have good intentions but it's my nature to be a traitor and most of the time I will ******* over. But I swear to whoever that I'll always be your most caring lover. my actions will never illustrate my words and I wonder if that means I don't mean them. I feel the words so intensely in my bones, but you would never know. Expression has never been my forte. I can't understand my thoughts and I'm even worse at comprehending my own feelings. I'm the monster. I'm the numb and cold lover. I wish I would have found out who I was before I found out who you were. I wouldn't have let you get so ******* in someone who undoubtedly would hurt you. But what does that say about me? god what does all of this say about me? who am I now? what are morals and values and respect and love and genuine tenderness? I can't remember but I want to.

I want you to put me on your tongue and let me dissolve into you like the tiny white squares that turn those glossy hazel marbles into black holes and intense stares. I want you to kiss me and see negative colored rulers in the corner of your vision and I want you to have trouble making a decision between kissing me and observing me while I'm sitting on your chest and I want you to laugh like you did with your cherry colored lip curled over your childish grin over and over and over again and I want you to forget the conversation topic every time you close your eyes because the world inside of your mind is filled with blinking images that you can't quite explain aloud so you settle for little talks about Rosa Parks and Indian style kisses and how the ocean is the Earth's thing or the complexity of butterfly brains and whether or not they remember their caterpillar memories (they do). Describe to me the first time you saw your favorite color and what developed the affinity for it: yours, a glacier blue toy that resembled the ocean and mine, a lavender Easter dress that twirled when I spun. Tell me about your school crushes when you were four and what you got your clothespin moved to the sad face for and I'll write it all in ink on my knee caps because "God, we're such writers" and you'll check the clock in the gaps and search for tunes or lighters and I'll want time to slow down because the nights spent with you usually seem as though minutes are just a few seconds shy of sixty, which turns the little hand pretty quickly.
I want hours, weeks, decades, to analyze the freckles on your face or the pace at which you move your tongue and precisely how it tastes.
I want you to tell me that your brother would like me and about the mountains in Tennessee and maybe next time I'll try to stay awake, unless you want to listen to the way I breathe so fully when I dream.

When I close my eyes, I want to be able to see what you see.
I want you to keep burying the numb parts of you into the warm parts of me.

Give me all your pain,
your faults, your anger. I'll keep
them like they're my own

its easy
to love me
at 2a.m.
If I'm happy.

but what if,
I'm on the bathroom floor,
upset.