When you said you loved me only my left eye cried. When we together, my left side only knew love. When we were together my left side was the one you layed on. When you whispered your words of affection in my ear the left ear was always the receiver. When I was clinching your existence on a nightly basis my left arm was always on the bottom. Because my right arm was always the shield. The shield at night, the shield during the day, my shield for you, my sheild against you. The reason my right eye didn't cry too, because it's used to pain from you. My right side was both your offensive target and your defense mechanism . My right side knows what a knife in the back feels like because of your hippocracy and your hands. My right side knows things that my left side don't want to believe. Know how many times I use my right side as a bulletproof vest to danger, to the world, to you and then still be your soft side when she decided to take off the gloves. When you told me you loved me, my left side cried not because it loves you too, but for the first time it experienced pain. Pain that was only reserved for the right side. Pain that we both agreed that the left side shouldn't be exposed to like child watching their parents divorce. Unlike my right side, the left side's pain can't be healed with an ice pack, or aloe Vera, or even a good meal. When you told me you loved me was the day I became ambidextrous. The day my right and left side saw eye to eye.