Tell me this, hummingbird:
would you love me in my madness
as I trudge down the sins I've made, and
keep me if I were a memory,
would you keep me safe in a jar that's
shaped like a vase, made from the
throat-ruining pleads and panic hurries in me, and
would you, with gentle hands, tell me that
it's fine, and it's okay, is it alright to be
imperfect, messier than my tangled unwashed hair,
and me… would you?