wash away the metaphors

You drip sarcasm like caramel – too-sticky, too-sweet. Your face isn’t a mask (that would be awfully clichéd for someone like you). It’s bitter and hard, but you always let your emotions show through. And so your emotions are bitter and hard.

You spit words like acid and make them sweet with your sugarcoated smile – but sugarcoated acid will still burn out your insides.

Your eyes flash like lightning and you can growl like thunder and hiss like a snake and

yet

you don’t scare me. I smile at you and you smile back – tentatively, like a child. I sit with you and you don’t move away, you stay comfortably next to me. I talk to you and you actually listen, and with my words I start to wash away your sticky-sweet exterior.

When you start to talk back your words aren’t acid (sugarcoated or not), they’re clever and funny and kind. You laugh and play, your face beginning to soften. And when you finally (finally) say I love you

you don’t sound like anything except yourself.

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