You tell me my hair looks “real cute”, and the innocence in that phrase draws me even closer to you. You’re sweet, and even though you have dirty veins and a dark past, you’re so clean. You’re eyes are bright blue, granted I wasn’t there when they were a faded grey. Would I have been able to handle them when they were? You tell me about your past and the mistakes you’ve made and I always did find honesty endearing. You’re so unapologetically yourself. Or maybe you’re an incredible actor.
I hate to trust people, it makes me nervous, but I want to trust you. I want to take care of you. I want to make you happy. And that makes me sick. I never was this girl who felt this way. I treated people like agendas and motives. I looked at the world through a microscopic view, where all I saw was what was wrong and who were the villains and who was out to get me. Now I falter at the words of a cute boy. I crumble at your touch.
I spent my entire life building up walls and trying to be this strong person, this imaginary woman who felt no pain and could not be hurt. That was a mistake, because as soon as anyone comes along and breaks down those walls, there’s no longer an entire person behind them. I put all of myself into those walls, so now I am a raw, exposed nerve. I am easily broken. I shake at your touch, I read sweet words and hear wedding bells. I am the best example of the worst person I could ever be. It’s taken a while to fully come to terms with this.