Open and Empty

You hold everything.

Not just the ropes, or my hair. Not just my wrists, or my throat.

Everything within myself that allows me to dive into us. Everything I silence for the moments that matter most to us.

Everything that quiets when I look up into your eyes and feel safe enough to tell you what I want.

What I need.

And everything that stills because you promise to give it to me.

Look down for a moment at your hands and feel it.

It’s tangible to me.

A huge chunk of what makes up me is torn from my body, knifed from my soul, and placed there in your hands.

Heft its weight around.

Feel it.

Really feel it.

You hold all of it.

Every ounce of trust I possess, carved out, leaving behind edges that are jagged and raw, bleeding and sore. Leaving my heart pounding with the effort of getting blood through all the emptiness left behind.

You hold all of it.

Over and over again, you make me feel whole again.

Except for my hands . . .

. . . they wait, open and empty, for your trust in return.

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