Your words are puppets. They dance before my eyes and mimick the movements of your body.
I've always been afraid of puppets, the way they twist and bend and hide what is inside.
Your words are the roots of a rosebush. They puncture and strangle, manipulating the soil that is my perception.
I've always hated roses, the way they wither and die despite honor and care.
Your words are ice. They turn cold those that draw near, and melt when exposed.
I've always kept ice at a distance, finding only discomfort and pain from it's bite.
Yet puppets are used to tell stories
and roots, meant to anchor.
Ice preserves and protects its more fragile form.
Perhaps your words are allies, afterall.