People always
say that love makes fools of us all, and looking at you I can finally
understand why.
You make a
total idiot of me.
You turn my
tongue, so used to witticisms and clever retorts, to a stuttered, mushy mess
that must be reflected on my face every time you speak. My heart tries to jump
past my throat in an attempt to get to you, as if offering itself upon an altar
at your feet.
So instead I
keep my mouth closed.
I stare at you,
a deer in the headlights, caught between freedom and a nightmare. Too afraid to
say what I want, to paint you through elegant and fictionalized prose to
immortalize you, to win you over. I’m acting like a child, and just want to
lick you to claim you as mine.
But instead I
keep my mouth closed.
You make a
total idiot of me.
You make me
love being burned. I live for the sharp, stinging pain in my hands, anything to
hold onto the jagged metal edges you line yourself with. I wish my hands were
bigger so I could hold all of you.
Do I love you,
or is that the adrenaline talking?
Would you stay
if I were to touch you with shaking hands, unsure like the legs of a newborn
giraffe? Would I be enough in my own uncertainties? No matter how many times I
try to tell the truth, it never seems to be enough, I’m never enough.
So instead of
telling you all these things, I hide them away, and pray that someday I’ll have
the courage to make a total idiot of myself and tell you: We are all fools in
love, please forgive my foolishness.
