Paperback walls

 

I've always found it hard

to take love or accept

it on my plate.

A settling warmth and kindness

that I've always starved myself of,

in fear that it was

poisoned or out of date.

 

So be poisoned or waste away?

Fate it seems leaves

only dead end pathways.

 

For so long it was hiding.

in memories of hurt.

 

Within it,

deeper conflict,

deceptive counterfeit

affection, like a trojan

horse wheeled inside

my walls.

 

Only to explode

in violence

when the whistle calls.

 

It wasn’t truth.

It was a mimic of love.

A battle between hope and abuse.

 

And abuse won.

 

So I don't always

know how to accept

that people may care.

That their words

are not just empty air,

or that what they want

is to share in a love that is

worthy of the word.

So I often mask up.

Pull on the layers. Armour to protect

if the arrows fire near.

 

But I'm learning. A day at a time.

And whilst I've always carried

a world of love upon my shoulders,

for others to explore and delight in,

I haven't always kept enough aside

to cover my own needs.

 

For I first had to find

my own love inside. The love I held

for me. It wasn’t kept in an armoury,

it was in a library. A set of books,

a series of memories.

 

For love isn’t a battle,

It's a union of souls that carry

the heart of eternity.

And abuse will never win,

for under our armour we wear

storied skin. Our paperback walls

into the world within.

 

Love has always been something

I didn't feel was mine to hold,

but a gift to give when my heart says so.

And I know that I will accept your love,

Because I know the meal

will never be poisoned by you...

And when we break bread,

our lives will be full.