You tell me my stories, through the gates of my eyes. Seeking, kneading out the history and the secrets that I hide. We are flesh, tangled in arms and heavy legs. Grounded and yet floating above our heads. You look and find, I am open and raw, these emotions arrive in the corners of my eyes and create new river beds. Pain and form that catches me here, brought me to this space and to the fringe of lashes that blinks new life into me. All I have to do is be and you say that you can see me. The underneath and buried, the unrobed versions that I keep for when I am alone and the truth is safe enough to explore. The blocks you notice, the fear that rides my mind from day and night. You think I am afraid of you. I am pure in my heart but my mind has pretended to define the edges and fill the core with memories. You draw it out, sifted through and handle gently, the being that bares itself to you. How I hold it, my broken story, the protecting and neglecting until this. When you bring me back to the earth and put your fingers through my hair, I remember that it might be possible for someone to love me. That I am worth that. Even if you have to pull from the curling clamp of my spine, my sorrows, I am letting go enough, to give these pieces to you. For your understanding and for the bridges to begin. You took the time, to look and read me, to flip the pages continually.