Secret songs that you keep wrapped in boxes so tight.

Rings round your eyes and I love you.

Rings of life round your eyes, I think, not rings of flowers.

Soft hands and slamming doors, and kites without string... inspiration from geographically substandard teens.

I wish I could write properly, I mean, knowing when stuff was good and bad, and feeling it out.

A child to your chest that would lay as you sleep.

Comparatively, I am a child, I suppose. Though not really, not at all, at least as large as you and I feel so maternal, almost, to you. Silently protective when you are derided in private, and happy when you are close by. And I am all grown up. I can't look at you without wondering how it would feel to put my head on your shoulder and touch your proud jaw. Does my flouncing irritate you? Am I too much, too pouty or feminine or lax or quiet or uncertain?

I always wonder. I always get paranoid and misconstrue what could be neutral, or even more, for something uncertain, which I interpret as dislike. I just look at the differences, and I'm all too aware that those differences, that attract me to her, might put her off me well and truly. And even if she'd never consider me in the way that I'd like, I crave her approval.

Secret songs that you keep wrapped in boxes so tight, sounding only at night as you sleep.

Your hands are big and gentle with trammeled lines all over. Man's hands, with short square nails. Fidgeting around usually. I saw you walking, from far away, and knew your rollicking walk.

Here's a fact. I don't like feeling my own heartbeat, or the movement of skin over my collarbones. Both of these things make me feel panicky and vaguely nauseous. As if I'm encouraging palpitations. I don't like knowing what my body's doing underneath its surface. I also abhor the veins in my wrist.

However, I wouldn't mind at all if you laid your head on my chest to listen to my heart, or if you stroked my wrists, or if you wanted to touch the tendons in my neck. That would be fine. I'd be charmed that you could find those ugly visceral things charming. You can run a finger over my eyelids and into the soft skin under my brows, and I wouldn't wince once, as I do if I'm charged with the task myself. I'd like you not to be scared of my body as I am.

So, what do you think about your body? Do you ignore it? I suppose you apply practical thinking- it gets me from A to B. It's useful. It's strong and lovely. Those last two are my own proclivities.