stop it

you don't make sense. 

when i'm writing about you 
at 4 in the morning, the only
anatomy that makes sense is 
your heart, beating out of sync
with mine, out blood running
through veins that cannot find
somewhere to go, it has nothing
for it to connect to, i am not human.

do not tell me that i am, 
my biology, homosapien anatomy
does not attribute to everything
that we tell ourselves makes a person. 
my skin is that of a dragon's,
armoured and carved to deflect.
my eyes are a monster's,
ice chips in stone sockets.

so don't you tell me that, 
because i have spent years
detaching myself from that 
side of my biology - i don't
conform to that any more than 
magic conforms to physics. 

i don't know why i can't just
grasp the concept of you,
but you keep slipping past my fingers,
running laps in my palms, 
mocking my smile.

someday i wish to 
find someone who will 
love me as much as i love them. 
the first time i saw you, 
you cussed me out in a low voice
and i'm pretty sure i
closed a door in your face. 

funny how things turn out, 
i guess, because you grin
like you're something sharp
and you're just begging for
a chance to make something bleed.

The End

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