I couldn’t think of a gift off the top of my head
So I decided to tell you a story instead….
Once upon a time there was a girl with a broken heart
Bear with me, I know this isn’t a very happy start
But this girl, she was broken for quite a while
She needed to mend herself so being single became her style
She locked up her heart and threw away the key
A lot of time passed before she realized that wasn’t the way to be
She wanted a change but didn’t know where to start
She began to wonder if she could ever unlock her heart
So she decided to let her guard down and just go with the flow
Until one night she put on a black dress and went to Toads for a show
She had some drinks and the night was like any other
Except she mustered up some courage and asked a boy for his number
They started talking and a few weeks later went on their first date
She was excited and then nervous because she was running pretty late
Thankfully he didn’t think her tardiness was all that rude
But the kitchen was closed so he couldn’t order any food
They had some drinks and talked for quite a while
He had on a plaid shirt and had such a handsome smile
He suggested they actually get dinner sometime
And the thought of seeing him again suited her just fine
She unlocked her heart and freed up some room
And over the next few months their relationship began to bloom
They have the perfect balance of normal and weird
And sometimes he even lets her play with his very long beard
Getting to know him has truly been such a treat
He is kind, talented, smart, and sweet
So do you remember that broken girl from before?
Well these days she couldn’t ask for anything more
Being with him has challenged her in such a positive way
So she wrote this for their first Valentine’s Day

She paints herself, to better blend in;

She pampers and softens,

                                     she plans all the right moves.

She frets, ruffling her dusty feathers,

so battered and dull, the sheen lost

to empty restless nights alone;

alone and growing cold in the night.

She panics, blood rushing in waves,

crashing against her organs,

breath blown like strong wind.

She picks her clothes,

covers herself in shrouds;

she knows you will be looking.

She knows you will map her out;

the rivers and channels that create her landscape.

She paces, wondering if she will be

enough for you.

She only wants to be what you desire.

She wants to be the last thing you see

before you fall into sleep;

the memory you search for in your dreams.

She only yearns to have you coming back;

wishing to see more of her.

Be with her.

Love her.

Is this what we must do?

Morph into another, less wholesome,

creation of ourselves

to secure love and emotion?

How many forms can we take?

Is this just going to be a

battle;

a raging brutal clash of

shape-shifting and anxiety?

Are we just going to tally

the numbers of different self

we can create walking out

of bloodied bedrooms?

The scars of each transformation

hiding on secret patches of skin.

I’m running out of choices…