Dear Hand holder,
Oh aching heart, chaotic brain, vulnerability be thy name.
I didn’t know it’d be this hard. It’s beautiful and painful at the same time, allowing yourself to feel vulnerable.
Scary, quite scary.
You’re just leaving yourself open, all defences down. Anyone can come and hurt you. You tear down your walls enough to let a person enter the sanctity of your home and they could make it more beautiful or they could leave it a mess. But you can’t shut the door on them once they’re in.
I haven’t opened the door for you yet but you’ve been tearing down my walls nonetheless. And there’s this small open window that gives me solace because I can always run away if things get too complicated.
But these days I find myself stepping more and more away from that window and towards the half-torn down wall.
I can see you through the gap in the bricks. You let your hand in and I hold it. There’s just me and you with our hands adjoined on either side of the wall.
But for how long?
I like you enough not to hate you for the hole you created in my defences. But am selfish enough not to let you tear down more of it. Maybe that’s why I’m holding your hand. So I can stop you from making it worse. Or maybe I just like the feeling.
I’m selfish and undeniably broken. When will you give up trying to piece me back together without even knowing what left me shattered in the first place?
Look at your hands now. They resemble mine. My nails have been digging into them for a long while but you didn’t yell from the pain, didn’t pull your hand back.
Are you starting to like it too?
Am I turning you into myself?
Or maybe you’re turning me into you.
Don’t know what scares me more.