a love poem from a blanket to a gun

I want to start with a blanket statement:
I want to hold you down until you stop shivering
in the summer night.
Let me be your safety.

I know the patterns of your veins, the long tunnel
of your mouth. I know you are a protector
people use as an offender.
You’re cocky and arrogant
and your bark is almost as harsh
as your bite. You have a hair-trigger
temper and a kick so hard I tremble
sometimes when you reach to hold my hand.

I have seen what you do.
I love you anyway.

People have said that I am two-dimensional
and I admit that I am all soft edges—
I may be a people-pleaser, a comforter,
but I will give you stitches if you try to walk over me.
I will not always fold so easily. I will not always bend to fit you.
We both are made of stuff stronger than fiber.

I’m not asking you to love me.
I’m asking you to take a load off at my kitchen table
and read through your magazines shaking your head
to the beat of the radio. I’m asking you to love
your own ugly muzzle, your own scars and dents.

I’m not asking you to stop smoking,
or pull back after only a couple of shots at the bar,
or learn to put yourself together without anyone else’s help.

I’m definitely not asking for that last one,
because I want to be the one you come to
at night, smoke on your breath and in pieces.
I want to wrap you up in my arms and
I want to piece you back whole until all your
parts are warm under my fingers
and I no longer tremble when you squeeze my hand
at four o’clock a.m., half past ‘thank you’
and a quarter before ‘good morning’.