The foolish openness of my youth and strings of regret have rendered me scared to open my heart. It often opens part-way, it’s jagged-glass doors open an inch or two, so that you can feel some of the warmth, but not open enough that the fractured pieces fall in a heap at your feet.
Shards of cold and broken heart pulsate with my heartbeat, only a fraction of a second behind. They need to escape, be acknowledged and accepted, but by the time my arms feel strong enough to prise the doors open, I find that I am standing alone and the weak-stomached people that I thought wanted in had left as quickly as they had come. I push, you know. They push to get in and I push back with a force greater than their own.
I pull the doors open a little more and become afraid, disorientated or cross with the magnitude of the task. I push people away so that I don’t have to try. I don’t have to let them see the broken bits. They don’t have to hear the slower bits or feel the weight