Read my skin like poetry, and with it analyse my scars and wounds that can not be seen with the naked eye, rather they are hesitantly shared and given up when I let my guard down.
Listen to my words like voiceless melodies, and with it cherish what I say when I am vulnerable, for I am learning to heal and I look to mend my own casualties without assistance.
Hold my soul like a fragile object, and with it love and genuinely admire my flaws and unwanted losses, after all, I am a wanderer looking for more than a path but a belonging and comfort.
Smell my lies like the scent of nostalgic childhood, and with it guide me back to security and to the unwanted truth of my persona, regardless of its preferability it will continue to smell like home to me.
Taste my rusted, dilapidated halo like the bitterness of blood or alcohol, and with it recognise my fading innocence and childhood, for as I grow I fall victim and I fade with the rest of the world into its false beauty and burning passion.