I am not,

Nor have I ever been,

An eloquent or graceful person.

I stumble and stutter,

And blush.

I have all the subtlety of a gunshot in the night,

Muffled by city blocks.

There is nothing beautiful about it,

When I rise from the ground,

All scraped elbows and bruised knees-

Fear in my heart,

And anger in my stomach,

Defiance on the tip of my tongue,

Shushed by my fear,

Which wraps around my ribs,

Tying them together.

What am I?

A raised head,

Hair hiding my eyes,

Which speak of treason against you.

Silent tears,

That never make it to the surface.

A longing for blades pressed to skin,

And a quiet,

Dwelling sadness.

Nothing of promise,

Has sprung from my small town.

We are weeds,

Trying to be roses.

Ugly.

No.

I am not beautiful,

Or eloquent,

Or graceful.

I can't claim to be intelligent,

Or full of potential.

Nor can I say,

With any pretense of truth,

That I am at least worth the risk.

But,

When I saw you for the first time,

I knew I had to try.

You were just so breathtaking,

Walking through that patch of sunlight,

On the city street,

Navigating the potholes and people.

It came so naturally to you,

As though you'd been doing it all your life.

It was the first thing I'd ever found beauty in.

And that's why I couldn't seem to give up.

Sitting here,

As my eyes sting with sleep,

The keys of this borrowed computer warm beneath my fingers,

I can't help but remember it.

How I clung onto your arm,

Just a small town girl in a big city,

Scared of everything.

Compared to you,

I am a guttering candle flame beside a raging bonfire.

You are so warm.

I have always known that fire burns,

But you entranced me.

I deluded myself,

Thought you loved me as much as I loved you,

And ended up burned when I proved to be imperfect.

Love,

Hate,

Jealousy,

Anger,

Pain,

Nostalgia.

I remember your sleepy voice,

And the way you woke me with gentle words.

The way you and I sat in comfortable silence,

Because silence is so much easier for me-

And you never seemed to mind it.

I am a fear of spiders,

And love.

I am silence,

Listening to breaths.

I am sleepy eyes,

And stuffy noses.

I am sadness,

And hate for peculiar things.

There is nothing graceful about me,

And the only clarity I know,

Is when I speak without my mouth.

My fingers know the way much better than I do,

So I let them do what they need to-

And try not the interrupt as they remember you.

You are the smell of cigarettes,

The tang of whisky,

And the flash of metal against tan skin.

Curls,

And a loud laugh that hides what you don't like about yourself.

You are a disbelieving beauty,

But,

You are also cruelty,

And sharp edged honesty.

You are preconceived notions,

And bitterness.

You are grace in your lies,

And I am in awe of you.

I hate you.

I hate the way you second guess yourself,

Though you don't let anyone see it.

I hate the way you cry,

And deny that you do.

The way that you pretend not to feel,

And try to make me do the same.

But mostly,

I hate that you are lovely,

And that I love you-

No matter how hard I try not to.