You speak to me with wisdom
that I have not yet experienced.
I pour myself into you and you
return me, in precise little packages
whose strings I fumble with.
You tie them for me.
You proved to me that eloquence,
however beautiful,
does not matter as much as
I think it should, as I
wish it did. Because I can give that to you.
I can write you precise little poems,
box up emotions and hide them away.
I present to you this eloquence,
a shield with which I guard the fact
that I have no idea what I am doing,
and you give back the rawness,
everything I was trying to say
and more.
You wrapped it in pretty pink paper
and tied the strings.
