Being Clever Never Works For Me

You’re bruised. Battered. Broken.

Additional adjectives that begin with the letter “B”

Words I type out, no matter how sincere, won’t change that too much.

That doesn’t mean I won’t try.

It doesn’t mean that I won’t stay up until the wee hours in the morning, trying to brand myself in your memory like a bad acid trip.

It doesn’t mean I won’t stay up after you’ve gone to bed, wondering how I can impress you.

How I can show my adoration.

How I can make you smile a smile more genuine than the pictures, moving or otherwise.

How I can.

Stop.

Two years.

Three or more names.

Just as many attempts on my life.

Just as many battle scars.

And here you are, behind your screen, liking even the worst writing.

My biggest fan, and I yours. I wonder why this hasn’t happened yet.

It means nothing and everything, so little and so much, black and white.

Feelings disguised as pretty sonnets tied to pigeon legs.

A thousand miles of rope to tie ourselves together with.

Analogies on parables on anecdotes.

You’re so cute when you show off your wounds.

My sentence structure is broken apart to show off the marrow.

Imagery to bleed me dry, all cards on the table.

You want a war for your happiness? You’ve got it.

I’ll drain the lake between us and still swim to the other side.

I’ve been here before, I’m here now, and I’ll be here tomorrow.

You won’t forget that.

You can’t forget that.

I’ll fight for you, through the blood, sweat, and tears.

Punch me, kick me, scream at me that I can’t touch you, that you don’t want me, and I’ll stand outside the doorframe like a line has been drawn in the salt.

I’m in the red when it comes to emotion, but I’ll still drain my pocket change to buy your smile.