Telling your story to somebody is terrifying. Being that vulnerable infront of someone is taking a risk without knowing the consequences.
It’s handing them a weapon and expecting them to not strike. Showing them your Achille’s heel and trusting them with that knowledge. Giving them a map of places that are haunted and expecting them to not leave you stranded all alone or add to your list demons.
It’s opening a wound with blood gushing out taking the poison with it.
It’s healing, but only with the right person.
But people don’t understand that. They take your story, scars and secrets and show them to the world. My story is not for you to put on display.
My heart doesn’t belong in an art gallery.
It belongs right here in my chest where it can beat like it’s supposed to. I am not your conquest. I will never be.