Butterflies In My Brain

I am no writer, which ensues a deeper meaning to whatever words my heart forces me to write.

I am no sentimentalist, I never really give in to words and dreams.
But I find myself here searching for letters to draw the words describing what I don't have the audacity to admit.

Maybe,
I have been so accustomed to anticipating the worst possible scenario, to an already impossible situation, that I can't accept a highly probable one. It is like I am afraid that if nothing seems to go wrong something worse from all wrong would be inevitable.

Maybe,
I have been so consumed battling for perfection, that when an eye -so very effortlessly- sees me as such I shrug out of my skin.

Maybe,
I have been questioning the existence of unconditional affection, that when it crosses my path I render it blasphemy.

I am not sure
if I have been here before, or if this is a new place for me to get lost in. But I know that either ways it could be Beautiful.

I leeched
on edges my entire life, maybe because in their presence I felt less insecure about mine. But now I swim in the smooth clear waters of who you are and I can't be more comfortable.

I'd
write a love letter if I could, but I am sorry for my endless thoughtful wonderings are the optimum of my romance.

I'd
promise you sunshine and rainbows, but all I have are dead unicorns, mythical creatures scarred and senseless.

I'd
give you the fairytale you dream of, but who I am ends at the mournful tragedy just before the happy twist.

I guess
this sums it all, how I encapsulate myself with the warmth of your heart to distract my attention from the deafening noise that calls me to do what I do best..
Opening up my suitcase,
and spreading out my ugliest dresses in the ways that would hurt you best.

I guess
It is working just fine,
Mr. Against all of the odds keep holding my hand.