You’d rather give all you have; it’s hard to reconcile the you who are too cold and the you who are hotly obsessive. The you who feels a comfortable zen, and the you who yearns.
You can tell yourself that if you don’t get your hopes up, you won’t be disappointed. That way, it’s your own fault. You’re stronger than them, you tell yourself, when the only way they impact you is how you let them. You can hammer nails in your hand muttering all you have is kindness, all you have is
understanding.
And you can tell yourself, hissing through your teeth at each martyred blow, don’t hurt. It’s not worth it to hurt when you have the power not to. You can be impervious.
Maybe, girl, it’s that you’ve fallen for too many artists: guys named after saints, angels, or Japanese war kings. Guys who take you to the edge of the sea, but who don’t
take you into the depths.
Ones who say they'll craft you wings and teach you to fly, but who don't
