They tell you that you are magnificent in the way you do the things you love and they have you closer and closer to believing that you are not only safe in their presence, but wanted like you have always dreamed of being wanted. Or at least close. The closer you get to finally believing, the closer you get to allowing your entire heart to nearly burst open with the butterflies everyone says they have when their kids in love for the first time or two and the sweetness of the syrup you started using for your coffee, and the solid and steady hope that you cage inside of you that's been chomping at the bit to come out everytime you meet any human that is similar to finally breaks the skin and all of it comes out and then some. The bad, the scary times you told him about that make you want to cope in a way that harms you, make you panic, they don't at all or they don't much anymore. The dark hallway you walk down alone in your own home doesn't send your heart plummeting to your feet and you begin to walk own it towards the lightswitch and don't even turn it on.

They do all of this. Suddenly, youre left to wonder if maybe you are haunted by the ghost of Houdini himself. There is no cure for the feeling that this leaves in your heart that I have ever come to know except for the things that label us as degenerates and thieves and liars. But as long as I don't wonder what is wrong with the soul I have continued to bare to people who were never interested, I don't care.