You are the only one that accepts me as I am.
You ply to my will no matter how forcefully I embrace you.
No matter how many times I change my mind or turn away,
you hold me in a cocoon of safety when I hide my face against you
as saltwater leaks from my eyes. You soak it all up before I taste its sting
on my lips.
When I come to you at night,
it doesn’t matter if I’ve flossed or scrubbed away the black specks of mascara
from my eyes. You don’t care about the stench of oil in my hair
or the remnants of my day’s travels wedged between my toes,
And I don’t have to feel guilty when I don’t come to you,
when I choose to acquaint myself with thick books and complicated texts,
spend long nights in their company
instead of yours,
pondering their questions and their purpose
instead of your softness and warmth,
neglecting you, leaving you empty and cold until dawn.
So I come and go as I please,
and you don’t ask me where I’ve been, don’t argue
even when I insist on dressing you into something new—something
yellow or pink, fresh and clean, flowery prints, with a white cover on top,
you let me be as I am. You never speak against me.
In fact, you never speak.
Except to screech a little
when I let my weight drop on you too quickly.
(But don’t feel embarrassed; your softness is my favorite thing about you.)
You really are the only one that accepts me just as I am,
plies to my will no matter how forceful I may be,
and my conscience does not swarm with guilt
when I neglect you during long nights.