2. the one I trust | from me to you

2018-05-29 09.19.38 1.jpg

I guess trust is something you practice. I don’t know where I’m going with this, so just hold on a minute while I ramble my way to a conclusion.

I’ve realized that the reason I don’t trust more is because I’m not used to it.

You never know what people are gonna do with the things you share with them. And you can look at it as being the catch of a friendship, or you can see it as being the beauty of it. I haven’t practiced the art of reliance too often in life. I’ve met people worthy of it, I’ve met those who seemingly deserved it, but I’ve consistently given it only once.

She’s my person. We’ve known each other since we were twelve, became friends a year later and it only took us a few months to become confidantes. I don’t even know if we just casually morphed into the same type of person or if we were both already set up to become it. I think we trust each other out of habit. Many years went by and I have never regretted sharing something with her. She has never used anything I said against me. And she could have! – she knows my darkest thoughts. We’ve been in each others lives consistently. I believe consistency is the back bone of trust.

I can’t see a future in which she isn’t in my life. You don’t throw out the molde of something that isn’t broken. She is my person. If I was ever in a situation where I would murder someone, she’d be one I’d call to help me hide the corpse. If I ever ran out, she’d be the one to know where I would be at. Mostly because, she’d be with me.

I think the reason why we work so well is because we’re way too similar. Our similarities are what connect us and our differences allow us to be friends. We differ in many things, we see the world from polar opposites. It’s almost like we’re the same person, seeing life through two different perspectives. Of course hers, is probably the right one. I’m a little too passionate to be rational, too much of a dreamer to see what life will be. While she can see it as it is. Sometimes almost too well.

It’s borderline unhealthy that we’re allowed to be friends. We can talk for hours and not disagree a single second. We can admit that we don’t see eye to eye and move past it, no hard feelings, end of discussion. She’s the only person with whom silence was never awkward. It’s so stress relieving that you can be with someone and not have to struggle to keep a conversation going if you don’t feel like talking.

We’ll take breaks from each other. Right now, we’ve been closer, but we’ve also been further away. There have been certain times in our lives in which we’ve met new people and drifted away for a little bit, but she’s my person nonetheless. She’s the one I’ll send a text to when I’m going through something I can’t cope with, and she’s there. She never fails to respond when it matters.

Trusting her is kind of a second nature to me. Way to often I have to think of trust as sometimes I should exercise. But we’ve been doing it for so long and we’ve been through so much together that it’s just natural now. But it took a while still.

Going back to my premise, trust is something you practice. And I don’t do it that much, so when I try to, I’m often not great at it. I take my time with my words, I take too long to share something that would be simple to someone else, I take the patience out of my friends for being way to reserved.

There are some people in my life in which I should trust more. Here’ my plea: bare with me. It takes me a while, but I get there. She is my person, if anything she is proof that I can do it.

1. The boy I failed to love | from me to you

From me to you, dugged out of my blooming heart.

I am here, as close as the present allows me to be. I am sorry, as apologetic as you’ll allow me to be. These words are no longer mine, they belong to you now, take them with you if you must or leave them be if you can’t bare them. I have to give them to you, they are not mine to have, and if I keep them for much longer they take up all the space in me. I’m overflowing when all I want is to bloom. So take them or toss them, let them out of here.


  1. The boy I failed to love.

He wrote me poems. In them there were words I did nothing to deserve, between the lines there were feelings I had no intention to keep. I did my best to push him away – or so I thought I did – but closer and closer he got. I could no longer breathe.
I shouldn’t be so scared of being the object of literary affection, but I couldn’t handle the outspoken fondness. I’ve learned to love quietly, shyly and slowly and I grow doubtful of such quick attachaments. He was a tsunami of all good things, but one can drown in rivers, even though the waters’s sweet.

Maybe I’m the one who’s broken – and I say this with all the certainty – I’m too slow for the game. Affection doesn’t come easily to me. It’ll take me years to love someone and even longer to trust them.

His only fault was to pick me out of the 7 billion people in the world. The reason why I would be the object of his poems was baffling to me. Anyone else would have taken them into consideration, while I showed a complete disregard for his feelings. It was not fair, I never was. There’s no narrative in which I’m the hero and I have to own up to that.

I should admit that I’d write about him too. I’d write in detail about the softness of his fingertips tracing my arm. I would turn little things into novels. I could write about him for pages and he could lay in my bed for hours, but hell be dammed if I was ever gonna love him.

It wasn’t fair that I told him I wrote about him. It gave him the wrong impression. I know now not to let people know when I write about them, not when I care more for what I can turn them into for the sake of the tale than for them.

It’s not like I sent him what I wrote. Maybe I should have. I never sent him any words of mine. He sent me his. I never provided him with true intimacy. He can say he met me and went on without ever knowing me. How he kept coming back was puzzling to me.

Had I sent him my words he would have read right through me and realized I was never worthy of his affection, for I could never claim it or even return it. It all went to waste.

I’m sorry I couldn’t let him know sooner how incapable of loving him I was. I’m sorry I allowed him to be vulnerable when I couldn’t even be honest. I’m sorry I’ve let him write to me, talk about me to his friends, paint a picture for a near future, when I knew damn well enough my interest was brief and he wouldn’t have my attention for long. I’m sorry I’ve done it more than once and I’m terrible sorry because I know I’ll do it again.

At last, I’m sorry this is more about me that it was ever about you. In all fairness, at least you can’t say I’m not consistent.