Full Throttle

Dear you:

I have found someone who could ignore the cancer in my ribcage, the promises withering inside my lungs. If you were to turn me inside out, you would see a flushed pink happiness spreading up from between my ankles and settling in the crevices of my stomach.

There is just something about you that stays snug in the crook of my elbow-- and I don't know what it is, or how you do it, but now I am, and you are, and we are.

How easy is it to know me? 

To know that something in the tips of my toes should warn you away, to know that if you looked at me, my face might be as cratered as the moon? 

I know you would tell me to ask myself the same thing about you if I asked, so I never ask--but I know what I would say to that. Your lungs are concave and gently bent the way they should be, and your face is as smooth as an alto voice. 

And when you worry:

I want to show you a thousand different awkward stares, a million crooked hands, as many deformities I can find, and ask you, "Are you still worrying now?" Because you have always been beautiful, and if this abundance of sadness is what it takes for you to see that, I will pack up this exhibit in the corners of my mind everyday for you.