I need repair. For when am not scared shitless of loving you, I am not prepared. And I am clueless as to why. When I think I am up for it, I realize that I am not. It’s a surprise because you are everything I would ever want in a man. But even when I fall or trip I rise and appreciate you and everything you do. You call me a painter for I love colours. And I think you are a fantastic carpenter. Though not of furniture but by far, the only one who could fix my problems. My heart is quirky, and my actions pretty juvenile. I sometimes lie. Saying I am feeling something I am not. Sometimes I am blind. Praying for things I fail to see are right in front of me. So I came to your shop to get repaired because I want to function fully. To have the courage to tell you that my insecurities have nothing to do with your mastery of your tool box, but only me, the bravery I lack and the fool I’ve become. So leave the box; and take all of me.

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