I feel myself wound tight.
No maybe wound protectively.
A blanket wrapping my shoulders to protect me from the cold.
I usually find my own warmth, my own safe space.
Letting someone into this place with me I don’t do easily, and I don’t do casually.
I protect so that I am not in a hurry.
That I don’t give without receiving.
I will try to lean into uncertainty.
Yet the experience of sharing my space with another is desperately limited.
I hold back.
I hold at arm’s length.
Appearing judgmental and closed.
Creeping past the blanket,
That raw place spills out.
That raw place oozes my worry.
The rawness of me.
And the rawness feels like the impossibility of possibility buried in futility.
Beyond the protection of my own space.