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I'm at a point in my life where I'm knitting my skin into a sweater --
So that I might become clothing to the bear temple that is you --
so that I might touch the frostbite that has held your heart captive and melt your soul into my fabric.
I have an issue with sharing your smile --
like I know what it does to me --

Impossible to fathom what it feels like to loan it out.
A late fee others are happy to pay.
A  fee I want to swap out of porcelain hands --
knowing hands --
good-for-nothing hands.
I am a glove --
But you hate feeling your fingers caressed --
it gives you anxiety --
Because you feel trapped --
and now I am your sole
that you crush while you live --
and I can't help but think that this might be my best position ever.
The glimpse of pain when you lift to step is quick --
and there's just not enough time between the air and pavement for me to reach out without tripping you up --
and I'm stuck in this analogy because I feel it's vital to know that I'm still caught on the bottom of your shoe.
To make sure your feet stay planted --
and your steps don't stumble --
and when you fall you do get back up --
I get it.
I can take it.
There's nothing that brings me better butterflies than the pain of soul-crushing soles weighing down on me --
and I accept --
but I wanted to be your sweater.


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