convince me

We like to think we’re



nothing’s going to hurt us,

cut us,

bruise us,

because we wear armor made of smiles.

We wear gauntlets that sound like,

“I’m okay,”

and carry swords of reiterated concern.

We like to drive fast,


underneath the wide open sky.

We like to play rough

with fire,

with danger,

with hearts.

We sit in closets,

on floors,

in driver seats of cars,

and tell ourselves

over and over

“I’m okay,

everything is fine,”

because I am okay,

and everything is fine.


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