When you look at me,

I feel simultaneously safe and known,

When in reality I am neither of those things with you.



I am not known by you.

In fact my arms are open,

And I’m naked before you asking you to know me,

And you choose to not know me.


And I am not safe either.


Definitely not safe.



Because my heart is exposed to you.

I hold it in my hands,

In the familiar form,

Of the beating organ,

In my outstretched palms,

Insisting you take it,

And you won’t.


So you are not safe.

Nor do you know me.


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