Don’t build me a metal heart

How could my heart be made of interlocking cogs and gears if it aches every time I realize that you cannot bear being my equal?

How could electric pulses march along my coppery veins if my blood boils whenever you make me feel small so you can feel big?

How could you observe my metallic sheen if I have dimmed my light so it doesn’t blind you?

How could you say I’m an empty, metal husk if the fire inside me roars to life whenever you are not there to smother it?

How could my hue be a dull bronze or murky gray if I am an ocean of colors enjoying the ebb and flow of life?

How could I dream in zeros and ones if my imagination is a vivid landscape interwoven with beauty and wonder?

How could you suggest my soul is weighed down by metal limbs if my aspirations allow me to soar across the globe?

How dare you suggest I’m robotic if I am full of life beyond the metallic walls I have erected around myself to protect me from you?

What will you do if I let them colapse?

Will you be able to bare it if I shed my metal skin?

Will you be able stand side by side with the person I am on the inside?

Or will you crumble under the weight of your own insecurities when I am no longer there to shoulder them?