And I stood there- my arm outstretched- the flesh of my palm sickeningly pale, translucent even. Vulnerable. I don’t believe in wearing my heart on my sleeve. Frankly, it’s a nuisance, and people for whom it’s not intended think they have the right to (mis)handle it. I handed you your own personal map- traced the back streets and highways of every artery and vein- granted free access to pathways and trajectories where only neurons fire. You swept up the littered streets and polished monuments and memories until their gleam was painful to anyone who looked. You stumbled across fault lines and paused before speed bumps of insecurity, finding your way around them sometimes crudely and without much patience, but most times gently. But then one day, I found the map crumpled in a ball and shoved roughly underneath a lumpy mattress. You were tired of an eternity and a half of rescue missions and repairs, and I was tired of not being able to navigate.
So I took it back.