They say your past lovers
shape your future tastes,
and I'd be fraught with a dilemma
if it were true,
because I cannot afford to love
another man like the last two.

Looking into myself,
I can't pinpoint that
crushing, confusing, messy
mixture of feelings I have for you.

I would have sworn a week ago
that I hate everything about you,
but now dreaming back
I remember how tender your love was.

I don't know why
you loved me like that
and no one else,
or why you tortured other souls
to have me,
or why maybe,
you destroyed yourself,
but I do know
that I can't rest
without understanding you.

These doors are shut,
can't you see that?

I've got half a mind to let you hear
my screaming rattled insides,
but I know better.

I know better than to subject you
to the ever compressing, binding,
and oppressive part of my existence
just so you can play pretend
with who you think I am.

Stop acting as though one of you can
hold a key to the door,
taunt my demons out to prowl,
and make love to the idea of me;
you are no knights in shining armor,
and surely, you can see
I'm not open to visitors.

Dejected, I've detected
that the things people say
can't make sense anymore;
God, it's hopeless, I'm lost,
and maybe someone out there
can tell me where it went wrong.

I want to believe him,
yes, I do,
but who's the fool here
to think it's true?

Please forgive me,
those of you who come close,
for not taking chances
in letting myself loose;
I'm just frightened
by what I've left behind
and I'm just frightened
of what lies I might buy.

Every time I think of you,
I hear his name instead
and it’s almost as if
every abuser is the same,
and it wouldn’t matter whose name
I were to speak out to the world
because both deal the same damage.

My whole body feels weak,
and I can’t help but imagine
this would have been the perfect time
for you to use me,
if you hadn’t already.

These weighed down bundles
of my tumbled dried insides
collapse into heavy stacks of cotton
linen sheets, tangled;
memories of cold pressed touches
and warm suds wash over me,
while my seams come undone
in my hands.

Why do you think these threads
can be untangled?
I've looked at your patchwork heart
and oh, how I wish mine could be mended like that,
but I hope you can understand,
I've broken many needles in the process
and I'm not sure I can afford to start again.