unfolding
you blank thing, piece of paper, clean slate, waiting to be written on. the indents of this pen forming valleys to lead into oceans never ending
you––confession. folded three times and tucked away into the pockets of his heart. you wish to be branded onto his aortas and chambers, pumping this ink into every part of him that breathes.
but he is a wild thing, and ink is as permanent as the air that escapes his lungs, and you––confession, blank thing–– find yourself trampled on the ground, no longer blank, still confession.
you stubborn thing, unfold yourself as needed, find a new canvas to tattoo yourself on. unfold three times, and let the confession breathe on its own, not dependent on someone else’s blood.
you stubborn confession, blank thing no longer. your valleys run abundant, and he is no longer the signpost to pin yourself on.