Don't tell me I'm brave,
   my dear, my friend,
   when all my shameful shielding of some
   bigger truth sold me as a
   demon in the hearts of every
   single one
   I hurt.
 And you think that sentence begins
   and falls with my violence, my impulsive
   bite, but it begun with sweet
   love,
   such warm sweet love,
   and ended with a
  drawing desire to be
     perfect.
 I'm sorry I was so
    much to handle, bellowing brightness
    such an ugly, foul colour. But
    the passion I held was fuller than
    the squirm of my hip under
    self-conscious behaviour.
  It was eternal and we were eternal and
     there was nothing I felt in my heart
     more often than
     love.
  And there was never anyone
    quite
     like you;
    golden-brown eyes, soft, dark
    hair for a soft, dark man filled with
    justice and dedication and
    a mind more pure than
          any
      before.
Don't tell me I'm brave,
   my love,
   when all my shameful shielding of some
   bigger truth sold me as a
   demon in the hearts of every
   single one
   I hurt and the 
    only truth that ever 
    weighed was the fact that 
    you were so
     magnificent
     and there was never 
     anyone
     I could ever be in love with,
            aside
             from
                                you. 

Published by Charlotte Griffiths