i am sensitive

i am a freshly open wound

red, hot feeling every feather brush and stab at its fullest

if i were a word i would be un-numbed

happiest of the content

saddest of lonely

always giving people the power to open you up

you hand them the map of You

they become your god- all seeing, all knowing

the rush and pain of collapsing into their arms trusting them to bear your weight

they cut themselves open just to show you each and every branch of their nerves

the thickest

most delicate

you trace them careful not to snap them

following them like a path around his body with your fingertips

memorising each and every turn as if he was home and you were terrified of getting lost

straight ahead from his shoulders, left at the joint, down his arm, winding around his bones and around his heart

making sure to never forget it

the road to Him

you poke and prod around observing him to see if it hurts

of course it doesn’t

and he doesn’t tell you when it does

but rather shows and guides you to his thickest most sensitive vein

you feel the rush of his blood- an ocean

hear the rhythm of the tide from the inside of his chambers

not a single space stands in between you

you can crush him with a pinch

stop the flow of his rivers, life will come to a halt

but he trusts you not to

and if they ever do you hope it was never their intention.