"Why don't you trust me?"
Never have I heard such a loaded question.
You tell me that I'm making things harder than it needs to be, but I say you're making things sound simpler than they actually are. You don't know how far I've come to get to this point when I've got shoes made out of porcelain and I can't take them off. I can't help but be cautious. I was raised from a mother who wanted to protect me, but had limited materials. Hence my glass outerwear. I was raised with chants of all that could go wrong; all that has gone wrong. So when you tell me that I'm beautiful, I think of all the things you might want from me: all the wrong motives for a compliment.
When you kiss me, it sometimes tastes like betrayal that you're not guilty of. My mother would sing us hoarse lullabies about what men really want. That they'll do anything to get it and everything is a trick. Everything any of them says is a lie. Those walls are good if they're keeping out monsters.
Her words proved themselves with every partner she ever had, and I added a brick for every one of her lessons that rang inside my head. She was protecting me. But I didn't think my porcelain shoes would break and hurt more than they had ever protected. I tried to trust you. I tired out reasons why I should and reasons why I shouldn't, but the shouldn'ts would always weigh down my choices and my shoulders.
It wasn't your fault. It wasn't my mother's fault. It wasn't even my fault. I don't know who's to blame, but I know blame never comes from a heart that's looking for a solution. I stopped looking for blame when I started finding reason.
I'm still yet to let you hear this, but I don't think you'd have anything to say that I want to hear. I don't think this is really something that you want me to give. Not the explanation, no, but the trust. Not the reasons, but the relationship, Not undecided feelings, but established facts. I am a pool of constant uncertainty with a shore full of sand and doubt, while you fell from a tower of pain, through the air of no control and all you wanted was something certain to catch you.
Why did we think that this would ever work out?
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The Tea: Spilt and Bitter
PoesíaThe Tea ~ A Collection of Rants & Poems As long as I can remember, life has always seemed sort of poetic to me: Walking home down a street that looks empty, maybe sad, with a look on your face that shows your deepest thoughts of the day...
