You Make Me Feel Human
I’m trying to learn the kind of brave you taught me - pulling down the gates, letting go of control, trusting people aren’t growing weeds of lies when they’re sleeping in my bed.
You make me feel human.
I’ve spent months being dead inside, wiping my lipstick on faces of people I do not know. And I may not still feel alive, but you make me feel un-empty. Which is the closest to alive I’ll ever be.
When you look at me it feels as if this fire-breathing heart of mine will overload from beating so fast. I have to remind myself how to breathe lest the engine falls apart.
When I look at you I can never do it for more than a second. I’m terrified you can see all of me: dirty secrets and dusty crevices. I’m ashamed I won’t measure up to your expectations because, I admit, you managed to squirm your way into my skin in spite of my defenses, in spite of myself.
I don’t even know what the fuck to do with my hands – do I touch you? Do I touch my hair? Do I distance them as far away from you as possible?
I feel as if I’m five years old, lost in unfamiliar territory. Normally I hate losing control or not knowing what to do. Usually it’s me staring people into the ground, but I can’t even answer your “How was your day?” without flustering.
But you question me, you challenge me. Not in the “I want to conquer you” kind of way, but in the “I can see through your defenses, you don’t have to pretend to be tough” kind of way.
And I’m trying to learn brave doesn’t always mean building walls and burning people with fire as protection.
I’m trying to learn the kind of brave you taught me – pulling down the gates, letting go of control, trusting people aren’t growing weeds of lies when they’re sleeping in my bed.
Because back then, I wasn’t brave. I was a deer caught in headlights ready to take flight. Still am, probably always will be. You once called me a coward, and I’m curious what it feels like to be a daredevil with someone you like, with someone who’s not a random stranger.
I guess this writing is a start, huh? Maybe next time we see each other I can salvage enough guts to look you in the eye in front of our friends, and hold your hand in public without trembling from nervousness. Maybe next time you smile at me, I can learn to smile back, too, instead of teasing you to cut it out.
When all I’ve been is a pile of wet cigarette ash stomped all over the floor –
You make me feel human.
