It isn’t fear of trust, but a seed I’m afraid to plant, a plant I’m afraid to water. I’m afraid of watching the germination take place. I can’t let those streams of tears out, even when my lungs can no longer gasp for air. So I stand firm and tell you with a smile on my face of how torn the flowers in my garden look.

Not all scars should be shared. And so I smile at your curiosity and let it pass by like the autumn wind. I deny you the sight of every rose and thorn that makes the beauty of my garden today. If I ever let you, then I won’t see you the same.

If you’re a professional, a brother, a good friend, I won’t look at you the same anymore. Instead I would look at you as my new walking diary. I would look at you as my new shoulder to cry on. I would look at you as a friend who has the old and new pages of my own book. I would look at you as a listener, my new galaxy filled with the moon. I will see you as a person who deserves space in my pelleted, thorned heart.

My own book will always find its place and comfort in your hands. I am afraid the day will come and those hands won’t be there to lift the book from the dusty floor. And so am I afraid. I will never let you see every roses and thorns that makes up the garden you see before you. I won’t let my own book get comfortable in your hand. I’m trying to save it from the future.

But I will never regret the side of the garden I let you see. It indeed needed water. I will never regret the pages you have read. They indeed wanted to be read. Maybe you have become part of the book as well, and I can gladly announce you as my bestie.


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