It’s amazing what words do to me. I claim to be a writer. An artist with words as paint. I can manipulate them with the deftness superseding others. Yet, your simple question sends me reeling.

The best question to ask is what is your body doing right now?

Curled deep into a fetal position, mind shaking, phone set on my ear.

I am afraid.

I’ve always pushed people back. Let them see enough of me to claim to be close. I keep them a handbreadth away. Enough so that I can mingle with them whenever I want, but never be hurt by them. I have been hurt before.

Maybe I exaggerate. I never really know.

“Why do you think you love me more than I love you?”

I have always fallen so quickly in love, steeling myself so I don’t get hurt.

I stockpile things that have hurt me, incase I need to leave.

I’m trying, though. To let you get close to me. To stay deep in love with you. It’s hard, I’m flighty by nature.

Be patient.

Help me.

Tell me what I have done wrong and I shall fix it.

Let us stay like puzzle pieces, fitting so nicely together it should frighten us.