you are the kind who will text him late at night about the bow curve of his lips and how if his arms were bridges you’d only be rivers so he would always hold you, you are good morning texts and staying up just to be sure he’s going to bed, you’re stitches and he’s a blanket, you are trying to mend something in yourself by showing him what he needs to sow, you are holding his hands through loving you, you are guiding him through something that comes so natural to you - here are my hips, pull me in, here is my heart, take hold, here is my body, here is my soul

you ask him if you’re too needy, he tells you that it’s fine everyone has their weakness

but god what you’d give if he remembered to love you the way you love him, if for one instant he was the poet and you were the muse, if instead of conversations where you beg him to act less like you are meat and more like wolves - what you would give if he could learn the fervor of honest hearts instead of dragging you over open fires

you are tablesaw. he cuts away, but you do not die.