I pinched my fingers.

Slamming my feelings shut

in that box, full of memories

and things I have grown, not to trust.

Draw me a picture, 

of a monster

and explain to me. 

how it is one

paint me a story.

of lover

tell me how I became.

what you think I was

your perception and mine

are very different, 

my love

they could never intertwine.

for if I drew a monster

it would only have the expression of guilt.

and if you drew one

its face would resemble mine

if I painted a story of love

it would have delicate strokes.

rooted in promise.

and full of hope

yours would consist,

of inconsistencies

this different perception

caused tragedy.

i tried to see your side.

i tried to throw away my box.

and i hid my fingers.

slammed, broken, full of cuts.

bruises emerged.

the damage was done.

we could not love.

for you will never see me as the one

who could take your hands?

and help you heal.

the second box opened.

things changed I could feel it.

my box is not pretty.

my fingers are wrecked.

bruised and damaged

though I promise to try my best

and maygbe once I learn

to love that stupid box

full of feelings and memories

I have grown not to trust.

maybe then we could try again.

just please tell me. 

it's not to damaged.

to mend.