DEAR POETRY

You will find out that I am not a strong person.

Dragons do not make a home beneath my skin to hoard their treasured princesses.

I am not that lucky. For I have misplaced collarbones just as quickly as I’ve misplaced hearts, a pulse still rhythmic against my fingertips.

I am a monster of words, devouring Cummings and Plath with no ounce of self control left in my body.

I promised myself this weight would not fall for the sharp edges of stars ground into your knuckles.

But, write air into my lungs, poetry. Give this wild thing a reason to learn the definition of tamed.

Write me a poem, and I will promise to fall in love with you, slowly and then…all at once.