I could get lost in the beatuy of your eyes
Compare the, to the beatuy of nature
Crystal blue lakes, perciuos gems
I could say they remind me of home
Of feeling safe
Call your eyes bright as the stars
I could descibe your voice
Call it silk or cream
Say it draws me in
Your hair, I could say,
Curleed like that of the back of a lamb
I could call you a work of art
Each and every feature, its own painting
Dig out every cliched simile.
But I won't.
Not beatuy. Nor grace.
But lilac colored skies
blocked by thick and grey fog
Lively tree bark
Covered in mold and panic.
Hyperventitalting in the night.
Shaking hands and sweaty palms.
Toxic fumes rising from the prettiest of flowers.
Death crawling on all fours.
Nightmares dressed in laces and shame.
Your well intended fear. My fragile paranoia.
No malicous intention-Just fatal mistakes
"It's not you. It's me."
Yes and no.
Yes. You couldn't handle me. Not as I am. You couldn't take me as is.
Not without the searing pain of change.
No. It's me.
My ugly intrails against your indescribable beatuy.
It's not you. It's me.