Brown Skinned Vase

She unravels herself like a rose 
In the palm of my hand. 
Some of her petals break off 
And lay to the side
The pain of growth, 
Making room for something new. 

She looks me in the eye, 
The tension of letting go 
Of reasonable fear. 
Too many lonely nights. 
The crescent moon of every lie 
Hovers over her head. 

Piece by piece, 
She’s laid that insecurity in my hands, 
That uncertainty in her eyes, 
Slowly turning into trust. 
Seeing that I didn’t discard 
The pieces of her that flaked off, 
In my hands. 
Regardless of how bad they look, 
They are a part of her. 

She twists and she turns, 
Her thorns piercing my skin, 
One after another. 
With confidence, I don’t have to tell her 
That I am not afraid. 
But I do so anyway. 

The crescent moon that hangs 
Above her head fills out 
And becomes full. 
As comfortable as she seems, 
Fear still lingers. 
No matter how much she 
Lets go, 
She’s been let down before. 

In time, my hands will become 
A vase that will protect her from harm, 
And my heart a place 
That will warm her always. 
When the day comes she knows, 
With certainty, that I am not afraid, 
I will still tell her
I am not afraid.