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Coarse black hair, and a
lopsided smile, or maybe a smirk,
Your eyes like a globe, I could see
myself in them, reflected, displayed.
I want to travel the world,
and seeing it in your eyes is not enough.
But now that I miss it all,
I want to come back.
Tell me when to come home,
and I’ll wait. I’ll wait at the door
and I’ll camp on the stairs, never
too far from hearing your call.
Because home is where you are,
and the way you engulf me,
like the flames of a candle to the wicker,
you are wanted, not to protect me,
but to stay and keep me company, keep me warm.
Don’t get extinguished, you are my only
source of comfort, my only place to call
home even if I sit
atop the mountain of wax, it will bring me
down one day.
Be that red sweater that fits me snugly,
and it isn’t always cold here, so I don’t wear it often,
But be there on the last shelf, never out if reach.
Because home is where you are.

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If you ever happen to glance at me,
and feel a beat of your heart missed,
and skipped repeatedly,
don’t expect it to be love.
And if you still argue to the contrary
look into my eyes and tell me
my insecurities are loud,
and my (in)confidence louder still.
Try to tell me that
you love the way I laugh, loud and erupting,
deep cracking, and, so…
what do they call it? Unladylike, yes.
Tell me you like the way I bun up my
messy hair, and smile at you from across the room.
Or maybe the way I text you at night to say goodnight,
just to know that you’re there.
Or that my blithe disregard to the canon doesn’t work you up.
accepting is so tough, and maybe I don’t
like the way I’m stared at when I double-up,
or when I sometimes don’t put enough thought in my clothes.
For love is kind, and forgiving, and accepting.
If I cannot, would not,
embrace myself, why would you endure?