"Ammiro."


Adore me.
I don't want you to call me a fragile daffodil, or a wondrous contingency.
Don't call me a beautiful mess, and don't you dare compare my bones to Monarch butterfly wings.
Because once you create this symphonious masterpiece of an opinion about me, I will come back and scratch at the enamel in your mouth until all of your teeth fall out like a diabetic third grader.

Adore me.
Call me an elegant catastrophe, one that gracefully glides across body maps with oceans as fingertips.
Call me ravishingly fragmented because we both know I was never able to put myself completely back together after my own shadow up and left me.
Say that I am the entire universe with bruises on my feet from always being barefoot.
Call me a rythmic risk; compare me to the tallest evergreens in a forest of naked branches and old souls.
Hell, you can even compare my big brown eyes to stain-glass cathedrals in the hallways of vineyards, if that's what you fancy.
You can tell me I'm moon dust on Jupiter, but don't paint me into a Picasso piece of art, because I am the furthest of such.
See me for all of my imperfections.
Want me for those, and everything in between them, and the moon.

Adore me.
I know no other soul who has called me "pretty" and I never flinched.
I don't care about any of the letters in the alphabet except for the ones that spell your name -
A.M.M.I.R.O. -
That's Italian for "admire".

Adore me.
I want to hear you tell me that you promise to infinitely **** up my lipstick whenever you see me.
Tell me about every person you have ever been in love with, and why you were ever in love with them.
Tell me about the first time you felt the weight of heartbreak.
Tell me when you used your words as weapons against someone you never thought you would.

Adore me.
Because every so often there are wars going on in the one place where my sanity resides.
And let me tell you that it's like birthing nuclear bombs in the mosque of my soul.
So I would like you to adore me enough to maybe ******* stay when I spit venomous blasphemy at the world off of my never-been-Holy tongue.
But maybe my anger for what the world has done is commendable -
maybe my uproar is me emerging from the cage of everything negative that kept me prisoner for all of these years of my life.
Maybe it's my freedom pushing its way through my bones.

So adore me,
because this is the sun rising inside of me.
And I want to be able to stand next to you and hold your hand as you smile that smile of yours down at me.

This is the part where I am reborn.


- Meghan Julia   /   /   { m.j. }