A ring on her left index finger declares
"No tengo mas que darte;"
I have nothing more to give you (but my heart),
A daily reminder of her sensitivity,
Potential forgetfulness of her own emotions,
Her vulnerability.
You should know you can't pick me up and throw me around like that. One day I'm the survivor and the next I'm the victim; but now I don't really see a difference, both ways I'm beaten down by you. It's all become a blur, these past nine months. Meeting you was so surreal, every word that you said I was hypnotized by, everything I wanted to hear. I ignored the voices of others and followed my heart, which was begging to be loved by you.
I have an exclusive amount of trust, bottled up and locked away, battered and cracked from being carelessly wasted, and now I see you were only a perfect example of why I keep it hidden.
However, something about me will take out this trust, and I thrust it upon anyone willing to take it. At certain points it's under high security, and other times it will be left out for that person to take. But I can't keep control of where it is.
I tend to contradict myself.
Something about a mystery
Has to be so damn interesting.
No one holds you back.
No one tells you your shoes are untied,
So you are left to be watched,
Until you fall flat on your face
With no hand to help you up.
It is from these falls that we learn,
Yet I still walk with my arms outstretched.
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