soapboxdiner

It is not for you to winch or polish

Today is the one month "anniversary" of our first date. Strange, because you call me your girlfriend. You call every night and we talk all day. You teach my son guitar and hold me while we sleep.

You tell me that when I am ready to trust, you will marvel at the 'wonder of it'. You can't wait to see what that will be like. But for me, it's entirely overwhelming.

I told you that this one time (in band camp), my counselor predicted that I would spend my life alone. "You're so independent, you'll probably always be alone . . ." Maybe she was right. But I don't want her to be.

Not to be misunderstood, spending time with you is . . . many things. They are all beautiful. You take care of people; you take care of me. I should be exhaulting in this new sensation, but I am not.

This is a place of vulnerability and weakness. Perhaps it is safe with you, but it's like being lowered on a rope down into a well of old hurts. And as I bump along the mossy walls, the dampness of those hurts absorb back into me. The moistness clings and cannot be ignored. It does not go away.

Your grip is the rope I am suspended on, and your sensabilities are the pool at the bottom. In them I see all the rusty dents in me, dingy and unworthy of the reflection. You polish me, but I remain ashamed that ever I allowed myself to tarnish, that my unseen nooks have been left corroded, that I have not cared for them myself.

You think you want to be my restorer, but what you don't know is that every moment I spend as a rusty, dented pendulum suspended on your rope, I swing more widely out of equilibrium.

I tell you in truth, your arm will tire before I come to rest beside the coolness of your pool. I will wear you down before you will ever get to gaze on the shiny product of your polishing.

1:56 pm - 07.06.08
previous | next

Home | Archives | Profile | Notes | DiaryLand | Random Entry