September 13, 2016


It is reckless to ask for a heart, to demand its every Single part,
Then dismiss its calls for help as static. 
As if love is an airwave,
and its needs white noise that can be tuned in to “the right way.”

It is reckless to criticize and blame a heart’s insecurities, to drag them out into the painful light of day,
Without accepting any responsibility for its feeling in security.
To ask for trust and faith,
Then when it, standing naked, timidly brave from the very love you gave, 
is at your door,
Hurl words in your own hurt as if they are as easy to shrug off as dust.

Trust. I contemplate Trust.

Trust is more than believing in your fidelity. I do.
Trust is more than relieving myself of long-held insecurities. I am ever-closer to.
No, Trust is the knowing that I can step into a room as myself
and not be stepped on, wounded, Shamed without my shell.

Trust is not a feeling, it is a being
that we are raising from infancy between us.
It must be taught, grown and protected lest it flee from us.
She is delicate after all.

You ask for my all. You want me vulnerable.
When you want me.
Other times you want me quiet. You want me accommodating.
You want me cool, calm, collected, fun, grateful, impressive and unintimidating.

When you want me.

You want me perfect and careful.
A wrong glance or answer, you want me repentful.
And I am.
But I am also reckless too.

It is reckless to wear a heart on a sleeve,
Every name she’s earned, burned like dark tattoos across a muse already too bruised.
It is reckless to ask you to understand me.
There is perhaps nothing as complex as a growing woman.
And it is reckless to share things I don’t understand myself,
Pointing out road signs to you in a foreign tongue on a distant terrain.

It is reckless to even attempt to explain.

I ask for your all. I need you empathetic.
When I need you.
Other times I need you unyielding. I need you objective.
I need you mature, need you to nurture, introspective, accepting and reflective.

When I need you.

I need you, You, yourself, but also more of me.
What an impossible puzzle Love seems to be..
And it is.
But it is reckless as well.

Reckless as Hell.