JESS WITH WORDS

WRITINGS DECOMPOSED IG: j.mar.kley

[jesswithwords-blog]

Jess With Words

I put on my regalia today to remind myself who I am.

Because things haven't always gone my way. My career hasn't always looked how I planned. I have struggled more than I thought I would with this cap and gown, and hood.

I'm a student of poetry and prose But I don't know if I could call myself a writer. I have pages of fiction and non- stored in the clouds. Characters whose stories I'm dying to share. I just don't know how I want to get there.

I can never find the end. I'm not good at wrapping up the story. But no one wants a cliffhanger In their books or in their lives. So I don't walk to the edge to take that leap of faith.

I keep my stories in "work in progress" files, telling myself that if the strokes are never finished I never have to share them.

But when did I learn to be afraid of my writing when I wanted to be a writer so badly that I spent years learning and practicing the craft?

So I put on my regalia today to remind myself who I am– A girl with words pouring out of her and the courage to write them down.

[jesswithwords-blog]

Silver Bullet Cans

The sun had long since made way for the moon, but the thick summer heat had yet to break, and sweat was trailing down my back. The air conditioning in my rusted blue pickup truck died many miles before I handed over the six hundred bucks (cash only) to Todd Watkins the year I turned sixteen. Four summers later, and I still regret the day I settled on Old Blue, instead of saving my wages for something that could run fifty miles without overheating.

Even over the rumble of Old Blue’s puttering engine, I could hear June Lee scream my name the instant my front tires hit our gravel drive.

“Cade!” Her bare feet kicked up thirsty, dried grass as she ran to meet me. “Cade! You have to tell him to stop.”

June Lee yanked open my door before I could put the truck in park. The hinges popped, and gravel crunched under my feet as she pulled me from behind the wheel. Words started forming in my mouth, but before I could ask what was wrong, I heard his voice. Though muffled by the summer dampness swimming in the air, I recognized the sound of liquor-induced slurring coming out of Einer’s gap-toothed mouth.

The door to our double-wide was standing open, spilling a dull, yellow light and empty Coors Light cans onto the concrete cinder block we called a front step. June Lee was tugging at my arm, but I took my time crossing the short path from Old Blue to the ruckus waiting inside. After spending ten hours slinging hay and shoveling shit on Mr. Watkins’ cattle farm, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with my stepfather’s alcoholic rage.

Einer had June Lee’s boyfriend, Eddie, cornered against the wood-paneled wall of our sorry excuse for a living room. My .22 lever-action rifle was in Einer’s right hand, and a half-empty bottle of Even Williams was in the other. Eddie was seventeen and played O-line for the high school football team, but you would have never guessed it from the way he cowered down to confrontation. Though he stood a good six inches taller than Einer, he still let the fat, balding man overpower him. 

“Cade, tell Daddy to stop. Eddie wasn’t doing nothing,” June Lee begged.

“Nothin’?” Einer turned to face June Lee and me. “You call that nothin’? This here son o’ a bitch had his hands on my daughter.”

“I’m sixteen, Daddy. I can kiss whoever I want.”

Einer did not like June Lee dating and drunkenly threatened every guy who dropped her off at the end of the driveway. He would sit on the cinder block step, waiting for June Lee to climb out of the unlucky guy’s passenger seat before he would wave his rifle in the air, yelling incoherent words laced with the occasional obscenity. 

“That wasn’t no kissin’ June. Cade, get this boy out of here,” he said, pointing at me with the whiskey bottle.

“He’s not leaving, Daddy,” June Lee said, the sound of stubbornness in her voice that she could have only gotten from our estranged mother.

Einer froze in place, his bloodshot eyes closed and his jaw clenched. I could hear the crunch of his teeth grinding together as he dropped the bottle of whiskey, leaving the rest to spill onto the already soiled carpet. I moved quickly, pushing off the counter where I had propped myself to wait out the rampage and stepped in front of June Lee in time to catch Einer’s wrist as he lifted it to backhand her across the face. I reached out with the other hand and pulled the .22 out of Einer’s clutch, cocked it with a single-handed jerking motion and aimed it at his knee.

“Don’t touch my sister, “ I said through a clenched jaw and narrow eyes.

Einer freed his wrist and took two slow steps back. A wicked grin appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“You think you’re so tough now that you’ve grown a couple feet and put some muscle on your arms. Don’t you ever forget who raised you, boy. If it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t even know how to hold that there gun,” Einer said, nodding his head towards the rifle I kept pointed at his knee.

“I know how to fire this gun so that I can protect June against bastards like you.”

“Just cause I ain’t your real daddy, don’t mean I can’t put you in your place,” he said.

I could feel June Lee breathing on my back. Her hands held on to the back of my shirt. I don’t know if this was to keep me away from Einer or because she was frightened. Probably both. Eddie hadn’t moved since I walked in the door. He’s not good for much, I thought to myself.

“Ed, take June and get her away from here for a while. Bring her back in an hour or so,” I said, nodding towards the door.

“Cade, don’t do nothin’ stupid,” June Lee whispered, reaching out for Eddie's hand.

I nodded, leaning down to kiss her on top of the head. She turned to look at me one more time before she stepped out of the door. In her doe eyes, I could see what I remembered of my mother: guilt, fear, anger, and a past that wasn’t to return.

 “What’re you goin’a do, boy?” Einer said, pulling my thoughts back to the now. “You goin’a shoot me? Leave your sister without a daddy? Who’s goin’a take care of you then, eh?”

“Shut up, Einer. We don't need you. I can take care of June Lee and me just fine. She’d be better off without you in her life anyway. You can’t take care of her. Hell, you don’t even take care of yourself. All you do is lie around and drink, leaving us to clean up your messes, pay the bills, and fend for ourselves. She deserves a better life than this and you won't ever be able to give that to her.”

He looked at me with questioning eyes. “So what, boy? You leaving? Taking June Lee away from me? You're a fool if you think I'm lettin’ you take my baby girl.”

I shook my head slowly, trying to muster up the right words. “No.”

“No? No, what?” 

“I'm not going anywhere. You are.”

Einer broke out into a rip-roaring laughter.  I pressed on. “I want you gone. You’re going to go pack your shit right now and leave. I don’t care where you go or what you do, but you’re not to come back around here again. Got it? If I ever catch you around this trailer or June Lee again, I’ll take more than just your knee.”

“You can’t kick me out of this house, boy. It's mine.” Einer said, reaching to grab onto the sofa to steady himself from drunkenly swaying back and forth.

“This ain't your house. It's Mama's.”

“Your bitch of a mama left us over ten years ago. Hasn't walked through that front door since before June could walk. This ain't her home anymore…”

“And it ain't yours anymore either,” I cut him off. I always thought Einer would be the one to leave all those years ago after he first made his appearance in my mother’s dysfunctional life. A rowdy truck driver from Montana, who was just passing through on a long-haul and stayed long enough to get my already-single mother pregnant. But it was my mother who walked out. A few years after June Lee was born, she stuffed some things in a small duffle bag and took off with a man we’d never seen, leaving Einer to take care of June Lee and me, a six-year-old boy who wasn’t even his own.

“You're leaving. Tonight.” I said, no stutter or shakiness in my voice. “Or I'm calling the cops and reporting you for assault on Eddie.”

“You gonna call the pigs on me, boy?” Einer said, trying to laugh, but it sounded more like liquor gurgling up in his throat. 

“Yeah. I will, and I don’t give two shits about it.” I paused, waiting for him to look me in the eyes. “I’m getting you out of here one way or the other,” I said, nodding towards the weapon in my hand. 

Einer thought for a long minute. Finally, he pushed himself off the counter and headed toward me. I stepped out of the way of the narrow hall that led to his bedroom and motioned with the rifle for him to keep moving. He went, sloppily, down the short hallway, bumping into the doorframe as he cut the corner. I followed him and stood in the doorway while he grabbed what few clean clothes he had and threw them in a plastic grocery bag. He didn’t bother with a toothbrush or deodorant, like it would have made a difference. He was permanently stained with the reek of hangover.

On his way back toward the door, he stopped in the kitchen and grabbed what was left of his six-pack of Coors from the fridge. I tossed him the keys to his rusted, red Lumina and escorted him out the door. When he got down the steps, I handed him a twenty and told him to fill up and drive until he ran out of gas. Einer nodded. He fell in behind the wheel and tried the engine twice before it finally caught.

I watched as he peeled out of the driveway, kicking up gravel as he turned and swerved to miss our mailbox. I watched as he rolled past the stop sign at the corner. I watched as his taillights faded to nothing.  

Just for a second, I felt ten pounds lighter. Until the truth hit. That twenty dollars would only get him so far. Probably not even across county lines, if I'm being honest with myself. It would only be a few days before he tried to find June Lee at work and beg her to let him come home. He’d show up at the front door and walk in like nothing ever happened. Sure, he'd cut back on drinking for a little bit, for the sake of June Lee, but that wouldn't last. 

It wouldn't be long until Eddie brought June Lee home. I didn't have much time to get our things together.

I packed up everything I knew mattered to June: her clothes, her cassette tapes, her pictures of Mom, and the teddy Einer bought the day she was born. For myself, I packed my clothes and the few books I let myself have. 

The rumble of Eddie's TransAm dragging down the pavement pulled me out of the house. June Lee jumped out and ran over to me before they were fully stopped.

“Everything good, Cade?” Eddie asked through his open window. When I nodded in response, he told June to call him tomorrow and backed out of the drive.

As the growl of his engine faded, I grabbed June Lee’s hand and led her to Old Blue, let down the tailgate and motioned for her to sit.

“Did you get him in bed?” June asked me, curiosity in her voice.

“Listen, June… I sent Einer away. I told him to pack a few things and gave him money for a hotel.”

She looked over her shoulder and realized his car was missing. She snapped her head back around, and I could see the surprise and horror in her eyes. 

“You let him drive? Cade, you shouldn’t have done that.” She leaned away from me, and I could hear the anger creeping up inside of her. “Why would you do that? Didn’t you see how much he drank? Why didn’t you let him sleep it off here? We could have talked it over in the morning. We could have figured it out!” 

“June, we won't be here in the morning. We're leaving town,” I said, sitting down beside her on the tailgate. “I've packed most of your stuff, but you can go back and grab anything I missed.”

I heard her try to speak, but I kept talking so she wouldn’t.

“We’re going to be better off. I'm going to take care of us so you don't have to take care of him. You can focus on school and getting into college. All those times that you had to work two jobs to buy food, every morning you had to clean a dozen beer cans off the floor, and every night you came home to him passed out on the couch or raging drunk. That’s in the past. I don’t want you to have to worry about things like that anymore, June.”

“What are you even saying? He’s my daddy, Cade!” June slid off the tailgate and spun to face me, hands on her hips, rage in her voice. “I don’t care how much he screws up. He is the only parent I know. And you, too! How could you? How could you abandon him like he hasn’t done anything decent in his life? He’s our dad.”

She stood there a beat longer before stepping toward the driver’s side door and climbing behind the wheel.

“June, what are you doing?” I asked, moving quickly to reach her.

“I’m going to find him. Move outta my way. Please.”

As she reached to close the truck door, I grabbed her hand. 

“June. If we stay here, you'll get stuck. Just like Mom did.”

Tears pooled in the corner of her eyes. “But if we leave… isn't that the same?”

I pulled her out of the truck rather easily, as if she weren’t contesting. I held her close, tight, as she sobbed into my t-shirt. “You have your whole life ahead of you. Please let me give you a chance at a good one.”

After what felt like an hour, her sobs slowly turned to acceptance. She wiped her nose and face dry and took a few deep breaths to steady her voice. 

“Where are we going?”

[jesswithwords-blog]

Baggage

We really don’t need a lot for camping — just some of the simpler things, if we’re being honest. But we tend to pack a lot. Definitely a lot more than what most would deem essential, like:

Our 8-person sleeping tent for 2 people An air mattress, sleeping bags, and pillows A coffee percolator Board games S'more supplies, always

A lot of these things we can do without. We just like to make our primitive camping trip as luxurious as possible.

I think the same can be said about life in general. We carry things with us, thinking they make life easier, when really all they do is weigh us down.

When I get out of bed, I carry a lot of baggage with me. The weight of my mother and her high expectations. The messes my brother leaves behind for me to clean up. Family members I can’t always count on. And friendships that come with steep price tags. Things weigh heavy on me every day.

My bags are full of questions that don’t have answers and probably never will. Questions like:

Am I doing this right? What would she think of this? What/where will this get me? Where would I be now? How do they make it look so easy?

All these questions are burdens in my mind. Because if I had all the answers, knew what to prepare for, and knew how to pack, then life would be more luxurious. Simpler, even. Right?

Maybe that's why high-end luggage brands like Louis Vuitton or Bric's are so popular — they know that everyone has baggage; some people just like to make theirs look fancy.

But what if we stripped down our expectations? The ones we have of ourselves, the ones we have of others, and the ones others have of us. Would we worry so much? Would we feel the need to prepare so thoroughly? Would we be able to pack less baggage and reduce the weight we carry around?

We're the creators and influencers of our own lives. We get to choose how many messes we clean up and how much we pay for friendships. We ultimately have the final say on what we pack in our bags each day, so why not choose things that serve us instead of burden us?

It's not easy to do. Some days, we might let others pack our baggage for us and walk around with more weight than we want to carry. But when you do unpack the weight of others, make them carry it for a while.

[jesswithwords-blog]

We can't, I won't take this too far We're both afraid of a broken heart I'll ignore what I find in your arms To keep us both safe from harm But I don't want to wake up alone I'd rather stay in this afterglow Your skin on my skin so close Your touch another deadly dose Please let me stay until sunrise Keep me warm through the night Make me believe you're only mine Revive my soul just one more time

NOTE: This poem is still a WIP. I'd love to hear your thoughts and feedback.

[jesswithwords-blog]

I could have loved you if my heart wasn't already broken. If it wasn't torn and tattered and keeping score. All I could do was take from you, And you willingly kept giving me more. The idea of us tasted good on your lips. Having your attention felt even better. When I look back on what could have been, I regret that I have to say I should've let you go sooner.

NOTE: This poem is still a WIP. I'd love to hear your thoughts and feedback.

[jesswithwords-blog]

If my books were still trees, I’d have a forest. A grove of fairy tale places And far-off lands That only I have been to before. If my books were still trees, I’d have a sanctuary. A place where words make sense, Where time moves slower, And I can forget what troubles are around. If my books were still trees, I would build a fort Out of all the twigs and leaves, To hide away and get lost In the stories that could become my own.

[jesswithwords-blog]

[Blank] Page

Does anyone else feel intimidated by a blank page?

I didn’t use to. I always seemed to have something in my head that needed to be written. But not anymore.

It seems, lately, that the stories, the characters in my mind, the situations that needed solving, have all left.

What do we do to find writing inspiration? Use writing prints? Plot-building exercises? Character development templates?

It feels defeating sometimes, being a writer and not knowing what to write about.

You aren’t alone in feeling that way. Trust me. But it’s important that we keep trying. We have to keep putting pen to paper, fingertips to keys, and get words on the page.

Even if it sticks.

Even if it doesn’t make sense.

Even if you never use it.

Write it anyway.

📷 excerpt from Rudy Francisco's "Helium"

[yeahwrite]

“Writing novels, to me, is basically a kind of manual labor. Writing itself is mental labor, but finishing an entire book is closer to manual labor. It doesn’t involve heavy lifting, running fast, or leaping high. Most people, though, only see the surface reality of writing and think of writers as involved in quiet, intellectual work done in their study. If you have the strength to lift a coffee cup, they figure, you can write a novel. But once you try your hand at it, you soon find that it isn’t as peaceful a job as it seems. The whole process—sitting at your desk, focusing your mind like a laser beam, imagining something out of a blank horizon, creating a story, selecting the right words, one by one, keeping the whole flow of the story on track—requires far more energy, over a long period, than most people ever imagine. You might not move your body around, but there’s grueling, dynamic labor going on inside you. Everybody uses their mind when they think. But a writer puts on an outfit called narrative and thinks with his entire being; and for the novelist that process requires putting into play all your physical reserve, often to the point of overexertion.”

—

Haruki Murakami (What I Talk About When I Talk About Running)

[jesswithwords-blog]

a quick prompt for a busy day-

Remember, short stories are made up of what is left off of the page. A good short story has characters with depth, a great short has a plot with depth.

What can you imply by a character’s body language? What important narration can you omit by describing a scene from a close point of view, or through dialogue instead?

The art of omission is important when writing short-shorts. As a writer, you have to know what needs to be implied, and what needs to be narrated. You need to know how the information will be absorbed and best affect the story.

– Do you want to say the woman lost her child, or do you want to imply it by describing a woman returning infant clothing to the store?

– Does the reader need to know that your character is moving out of his now ex-wife’s house, or do you want to imply it by describing a moving truck with only boxes full of his clothing, his tools, a lawn mower he got for a gift, and the bedsuit his parent’s bought them when they got married.

As a quick writing challenge today, spend 30 minutes writing a short story, or scene, or snapshot that doesn’t directly narrate or disclose a significant part of the plot, but instead, implies what is going on through description. Try using these words within your story: empty, found, rapid, supply, and nuisance.

[jesswithwords-blog]

Short Shorts: Reconciliation-Alienation

In reading John Dufresne’s ‘FLASH!’ for my grad school thesis, the biggest thing that stuck was that all stories have a common theme, and one of the most popular ones is the idea of characters reconciling after alienation or life after being ostracized from a group.

This could be a family member being disowned because of a religious or cultural choice. Or a friend being shunned after a rumor was spread around school. Or it could be a relative returning home after being deployed, or a loved one returning from a mental health rehabilitation facility.

No matter the plot of the story, the main thread is that your character is having to re-learn life, either when they returned to their community or after they left.

Pulled from Dufresbe’s book, start with this example:

A woman is sitting by a window in a crowded bar over looking the clock tower where she had agreed to meet Mr. X, a man she met online. The only man waiting at the clock tower did not look anything like the pictures on Mr. X’s profile. She waits there a little longer watching him, and what she sees makes up her mind.

Write two short stories, one in which she decides to meet him and one in which she doesn’t.

[wordsnstuff]

Challenges For Writers

You guys wanted some prompts and I thought this might give you some fun ideas. Some of these challenges can apply to every kind of writer, so I suggest skimming them all :)

Songwriters

Produce an album with each song touching on a different social issue

compose a movie score

write 1 song a month about the events in that time and visit those songs in a year

write a song about wherever you are right now

rewrite the lyrics of your favorite song

compose a new melody for your favorite song

write a song where the lyrics contradict the melody

make a mashup of completely different songs

Authors

write a story from the point of view of a character you hate

write a story based off a song

write a story from a deity’s point of view

write a story that takes place somewhere you’ve never been

write a story with no dialogue

write a story from the point of view of a piece of technology

turn a poem into a story

write a story with only 140 characters

Poets

write a positive poem about something you hate

condense your favorite song/movie into a haiku

write a poem about what you wish you knew when you were younger

write a poem completely out of YouTube comments

write a poem with song lyrics only

write a poem about a photo from over 50 years ago

write a poem about your favorite love story

write about an experience you’ve never had

Journalists

write an article from a perspective that is the opposite of yours

write an article based on a picture from the 1900′s

write about an interview with a dead person

report a story based on a poem or song

report the events in your favorite book

report a murder that nobody knows you committed

you’re a travel columnist. Write about where you are now.

write a fake news article about a world leader

[mercurialmilk-deactivated]

Journal Prompts

figured i’d take a stab at making some prompts. Tag me if you use them!! I wanna see what you make :>>>

1. Pick a year, maybe the year you/your friend/your crush was born. Find out important things that happened that year. The top song played on the radio, the movie that won at the oscars, any notable inventions? 

2. Pick a color. Do everything in that color. Try different shades of the same color, or do it all in one shade for hard mode

3. Draw a self portrait without looking at yourself on one page, and another one while seeing your reflection/a picture of yourself

4. Make a playlist of your current favorite songs / use their lyrics 

5. What’s your favorite room? Your bedroom, a class room? Why do you like it? What’s in it? Draw it. 

6. draw an alternative world. Maybe it’s the same as our current word but some people have horns? Maybe it’s a world entirely encompassed in an hourglass? 

7. Are you superstitious? If yes, write/draw about you biggest superstition. If no, write/draw about one that interests you. 

8. Where would you go on a roadtrip? Write/draw about the locations you’d love to see.

9. Write/draw about how you feel at 3am. 

10. Whats your first ever memory?

11. Sit in front of a mirror and make 5 funny faces and draw yourself. 

12. Write / draw your favorite myth. 

13. Draw your hands 

14. Collect all the ‘left over’ bits for a week: receipts, fruit stickers, notes, wrappers. Then make a journal page out of them. 

15. Print out one of your favorite poems. Cut each word out and rearrange it. It probably wont make any sense but it will still somehow feel like your favorite poem. 

[jesswithwords-blog]

How To Use Trigger Words When You Write - Writers Write

What are trigger words and how should you use them when you write?

[jesswithwords-blog]

Yes! I’ll admit, I’m not the best at reading books that are important to the literature world. Reading has always been more about fun than it has been a job or task for me. I didn’t read “The Great Gatsby” until my 20s, and I still haven’t even touched a copy of “Wuthering Heights” or “Little Women” or “Moby Dick.” However, I have read the entire Witcher series, every single Sarah Dessen book, and can basically recite “The Perks of Being a Wallflower.” Why? Because reading for fun is important. It is imperative to creative thinking, to learning, and to self-care. Why must we stress the importance of reading books like “To Kill A Mockingbird” (which everyone really should) or Shakespeare, but not encourage everyone to pick up a book that also makes them laugh, or cry, or happy when the last page is turned.

[knightedwriter]

7 Tips For When You Can’t Seem to Write

This is advice based on what has worked for me in the past. If it works for you, great! If it doesn’t, don’t sweat it. You need to do what’s right for you in the end. So without further ado, here are my seven tips for when you can’t seem to write:

1. Walk away.

Most often when I find myself just staring at my computer screen instead of actually writing, it’s because I’m just not in the mood. Get up, do something else, get the blood moving. Read, draw, play video games, whatever you need to get your mind off of it. The most important thing is to not think about it, and to not put yourself down for not writing. It happens to everyone–no one can be at the height of their creativity all the time. Take a break, and don’t worry if that break turns out to be several days long. That may just be what you need.

2. Set a goal, or time yourself.

Keep reading

[teareads]

Reminders for New Writers

Names are important, but not as important as you think. The perfect name is important because it means you’re happy with your character, but if you have this urge to write but no name for your protagonist, then any name will do until you find the perfect name. You can always go back and change it later (find and replace comes in handy - a lot).

You will never be original, there are no original ideas, and you should never trash an idea you love all because it’s been done before. Your style, your characters and your take on things are far more important than the general idea of a novel.

On that note, style takes time to perfect, and even then you yourself might not even notice it. It’s gradual, like hair growth - others might notice it, but until you compare it to previous photos (stories) you barely see it.

It’s the same for writing improvements. Until you compare it to other stories you’ve written in the past, you won’t see how much you’ve improved.

Self-inserts aren’t inherently bad! You want your main character like you? Go for it! You want them to look like you? Do it! One thing to remember is to treat them exactly how you treat every other character; make things hard for them, make them wrong sometimes, don’t excuse their bad actions. If you do that, then your self-insert is just like any other OC, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise (don’t let anyone tell you your OC is bad just because they’re a self-insert).

If you find writing hard, it doesn’t mean it isn’t the hobby for you! Like everything, writing can be hard sometimes. You don’t see people claiming playing piano isn’t the hobby for them all because there’s one song they can’t seem to perfect! Keep working or move onto a new story you have more inspiration for.

Perfect spelling, grammar and punctuation means nothing. Seriously. If you’re writing for yourself, it doesn’t matter at all. If you’re posting online, then that’s what editors are for. If you want to publish, it does matter a bit, but don’t worry about that - by the time you have something to publish, you would’ve learned most of it anyway.

Be passionate! If you want to talk about your story, plot or characters, do it! There’ll always be someone that wants to listen.

Fanfiction is a great place to start when building your skills. The only benefit you’ll get from original fiction is learning to world build.

Money and fame isn’t everything. Write for you, not anything else.

[jesswithwords-blog]

for justen.

I don't know what I did In life to deserve you, but I would go back and do it a million more times if I had to to keep you.

You are everything that I don't even know how to put into words.

I am so incredibly obsessed with you, with knowing you, with being in your presence, with hearing you talk and laugh. And with watching you.

I could watch you do anything and it's like I'm seeing it for the first time.

I feel, every single day, so inadequate beside you, because your greatness is so vast.

But you're so perfect, because every single day, you show me something great about myself.

You never let me feel small.

But what you don't know is, all of these great things about me are because of you.

You tell me I'm smart, but you're who encourages me to keep learning, and asking questions, and being curious.

You tell me I'm pretty, but it's because love makes anyone look good.

You tell me I'm a great friend, but you've made me want to be the friend to you, and others, that you are to me.

And all of the things I'm not, like, good at math, and observant, and stable on my feet, you are for me.

You are so wonderful that you take qualities from yourself, and give them to me.

You are my calculator. You are my eyes. You are my rock.

And you love me so much that you are willing to complete me.

And the best part of all of this is that I am somehow, someway, capable of completing you, too.