“I think I must taste like blueberries,”
you say, unlocking from my lips.
This is your favorite flavor
and you eat them daily by the carton.

I always found it strange, such a chalky,
bitter fruit to be obsessed with.
But then again, you are the same man
who drank black coffee at thirteen and listens to Neutral Milk Hotel with all the lights off.
I always found it strange,
how I could want to constantly change all your light bulbs
so you never have a reason for the darkness.

You touch me and everything is strawberry and piña coladas,
my taste buds favor the sweet side of things.
I make floral arrangements out of nerves
every time you look at me.

I’m the first good thing you’ve ever had,
you think.
And I want to break that sentence in half.
I want to rip it to shreds,
to leave it unrecognizable to any passerby.

You think that my loving you is the part of you
that means there is goodness.
You think that my loving you is a “FUCK YOU”
to your crippling doubt, the insecurities that trip you when you’re just trying to walk down the street.

That having me means you
can’t be as terrible as, most days, you feel.

I want to kiss the sadness right out of you,
but this savior complex has never ended well.
I rub your leftover scars
and wish to suck out the memory of how they got there,
but I can’t.
I offer my steady hand when yours shakes,
but I still cannot plagiarize your name.
You have to write it.
You have to do this.
You have to see it,
on your own.

Even if I’m by your side.
You have to see the worth in you.
And not just because I do.