Don’t let anyone call you damaged goods; not you, not your family, no, not even the girl who swore she’d save you. You are not a pick up line hovering under people’s noses, waiting for them to swan dive in to you as if you were a lagoon of healing. No baby, you are a maze of lazy afternoons and frustrated nights; you are not just an open window in 39 degrees of summer but an entanglement of briars and fireflies and windflowers.
You do not let people in easily and that’s okay because you need someone who’s willing to puzzle over you, to pick up your clues and learn you enough to catch the flash of Longing in your eye; someone who’ll finally reach your core, their bones aching for you, their blood vessels calling you home.
You are not deceit or the promise to stay till morning. You are not the taste of molding cardboard or of girls before me. Your body is no more a bottle housing 2pm brandy mixed with weed. I taste Sunday morning pancakes on your fingertips, with your every step I hear midnight giggles and squeals, my favorite books read aloud in your clavicles. God baby you have grace pumping in your aorta, you are the explosion in my solar plexus and the blossom of hyacinths from my scars.
My love, you are not a delivery that has been thrown at the back of a FedEx van, so stop pulling out your teeth and stumbling over the insecurities you’ve picked out of the laundry. You are the very lighthouse you’ve been searching for; don’t you see how you’ve held the fire at the back of your throat? I only helped you light up the candles at the base of your spine. You are your own savior. You are a butterfly with steel wings, the tattered classic on my bookshelf, the moon that pulls up waves of emotion from my abdomen. You maybe bruised and broken, stitched together by the swollen words we’ve attacked each other with and the porcelains we’ve broken but baby, you are not damaged goods. No.
Come now. Let me bed you.
Coz God baby, you love like a hurricane and tsunami hurled together.
