i think your eyes are good at
imagining.
their light is that of a
projection screen
not the sun.
i do not know what you are
delivering me
other than discomfort and
uneasy, hollow laughter.
"i like everything about you."
a bloated silence of questioning.
no one knows everything about me,
but me. and i can say
i do not like it all.
"my feelings for you are really deep"
but only as deep as the floating layer of dead cells
of skin that i scathe off in the shower.
it is not a compliment
to worship a human being as a
shrine of perfection
instead of bowing to the ground with them,
loving the scars on their knees
and the hidden songs beneath the floorboards
as much as the flowers in their eyes.
together, the rotting and the growing,
the putrid and becoming, all at once.
that is a true feat of emotion.
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