Is she a helping hand or an iron fist?
Am I helpless or helping myself to her attention by dressing as a damsel?
She’s happiest on her high horse,
and every conversation feels like an intervention,
which is just as well,
because I am well past “troubled”,
and she so loves to “fix” me.
I am innocent, just unhinged, just a tinge of magical madness that seems fun in practice, but could she really stand it?
Her heart is always racing, and mine is covered in scars and plasters,
she pointed to the word “love” in the dictionary,
and then kissed me, to be sure that I really got the message,
and I was just going through the motions of being a human, until that moment,
when I came hurtling back down to the ground,
to live out my life in love and laughter.
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