I find myself attracted to beautiful idiots,
With words like shiny pebbles of pinks and blues and diamonds,
But, boy, do they break bones.
They never know they’re doing it,
And they don’t see the bruises,
And I don’t let them see me cry,
So that when I call them out on it they scramble to apologize,
And pick up the stones they think did the harm,
And place band-aids and kisses over the scars until they’re completely forgiven.
Then they do it again, though always by mistake,
So I’m never truly angry at them,
And my friends say they’re idiots for hurting me,
But I say they’re idiots for never knowing me well enough to see which words will hurt me.
