You gave me your favorite teal stone bracelet
And I broke it
So you gave me another, this one yellow with a little wooden turtle to rest on my wrist
I broke that one too
For our anniversary you gave me a hand-made wooden ring
Carved out the inside yourself
Gently with sandpaper, until it fit just right
Hours of work and wood staining
It was cracked in half within a day
That first bloody nose, an accidental gift from yours truly
And an array of other small injuries as well
But you kept on giving: more of your bracelets, more of yourself
You gave me faith in my own perfection and I broke that too
I always break everything you give me
Except your body, except your lungs, except your dreams and your trust
There are some things I know how to be careful with
How to hold onto and not let go
When you gave me your hands
Rough, solid
Baobab bark thick with veins
A pulse, thumping cardiac embrace, a dance of the digits
I let you twist and curl around me, branching, intertwining
When you gave me your lips
Simple, wide, engulfing
Like soft sheets on a rainy day
The humidity sticky on the windows, but here I am dry and safe
Buried, cozy, deep inside your fresh detergent smell
When you gave me all of yourself
Soft, quiet, gentle, shy
I blow into your sails to give you pride, you take the helm
Steer me, harbor hold me, anchor me
But if it were like water
Your ripples would be soft and curved, geometric corners aside, you are my captain
I will try my best to keep you safe within my iron sides
Take shelter inside me
Let me brave the icy waters while you rest
Let my engines boil you some tea
Let them lull you to sleep with the soft purr of white noise
There are some things I know how to be careful with