You’d prefer I make things pretty
So I’m writing this for you –
Does my melancholy startle?
Does it sully your crisp view?

Am I making you uncomfortable,
With my less-than-perfect words;
Where losses count as beauty
And expression is a purge?

My depths no longer frighten me
With their peaks, and derring-do.
The only question left then, is:
Do your depths frighten you?