You Are Kind, But You Are Young

you formed me with feather-soft hands

palms warm and working the clay into something you saw in me

some smallish candle gleam that you washed over my skin

waiting for me to become the lover you dreamed of

but not the lover I would have been (had I loved you)

I have no interest in letting you paint me by numbers

and fill in my dark spaces with washes of watercolor 

what you loved was only ever a sculpture you created in my image

and I was never marble-strong to begin with

you are kind, but you are young

you have not yet learned that rough edges make soft beds

that sometimes broken arms are the ones that can hold you best

so take your time finding out

what love looks like under covers, warm and blended

less like pressed flowers and more like soil

and I will spend my days in the arms of someone

who already knows what I really look like