I build a home in your words
Sink into the comfy armchair of your thoughts
Prop up one of your pages, a mirror in which to do my morning makeup
I strap on your sentences, ready to face the world
With your paragraphs in my pockets, I am safe
They are not a helmet or a shield, but the ability to bleed
I press them against my heart, wishing I could push them straight through my chest
But I can’t. And that’s okay
Because I will grow up in the home you have built me
And then I will build one of my own
Photo by Janko Ferlič on Unsplash
Spilled Inklings 