Him

I am small like a child,
wet face pressed
against a massive chest.

His arms crush me gently,
wrap me in a shroud
of sinew and bone

as the smell of bourbon
and musk fills my nostrils.
His breath feathers lightly

across the top of my head;
reassuring whispers
tickle my spine

and tell me
I am not wicked,
I am not a useless, hopeless thing.

I am perfect and flawed.
I am loved.
It is enough.

 

Copyright © 2013 by Christopher Chaffin – All rights reserved

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About cjchaffin

Wordsmithing is my passion. I eat, sleep, and breathe words and phrases, only to regurgitate them and pray that they are better off than when I first ingested them.
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