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  • Writer's pictureTim Anderson


My defenses are in place. Thorns at the ready.

I’m tightly wound, closed off, wrapped up in myself. 

I offer only a hint of beauty. What you see isn’t really me.

You give me dew. You give me rain. You give me light. 

You nourish me from the ground up and from the sky down.

You don’t seem to mind my shell. Do you actually see me?

You do persist. I loose my grip. I soften just a touch. 

I’m still guarded. But you don’t care. You just keep showing up. 

You think you know me, but you don’t. This much, I’ll open up. 

You don’t mind my thorns. You don’t mind my secrets.

You have amnesia. You don’t seem to remember me at all.

You greet me for the first time every time. Are you okay? 

I don’t understand. You pour into me, even delight in me.

You’re more than rain. More than light. You’re just...more.

I’ve lost all my defenses. I’m vulnerable. I think you do see me.

You dress me in velvet. You paint me like fire.

You kiss me with butterflies and you tickle me with bees. 

You make me feel so beautiful. Can you love me this much? 

I’m exploding. It’s as if you are flowing through me. 

I can’t hold back your beauty. I’ve let go. You are free. 

It has always been you. What they see isn’t really me. 


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