Give me skins and canvases that don’t make me feel bad about not knowing who I am.
Something so neutral that I won’t ever get obscured in its folds such that the sky can no longer see me if it ever were to try.
Nothing so bright or entombing that my vision be obstructed, such that I can no longer see the sky back in my earnest and paltry and barely kind of way.
Wrap me in something that won’t suck and sup my flakes and dust and clouded self into candied fabric like a magnet, holding the all of my fractured soul, fast and fixed in time and girdled and branded and glowing, a turgidly neon beacon for incomplete souls everywhere.
Beware, my love, the resplendent, intoxicating skin of the predator, a layer that wears you and not the other way around.
Or, indeed, run to it, cling to it, if you can no longer stand the pain of being half a thing. I’ll forgive you.
Please know that I would gladly have been your other half and possibly still would.
Passion is a frightening thing these days. A lady would question, a woman may toy, a female might embrace. Decide which you want then go from there. I am not saying a lady does not want passion eventually, she would need to know the soul first.