Gotta give props to those high school poets. Nothing like hs to bring out the mushy-gushy sentimental side of you. For some reason, I like this poem. There's a far corner of my brain that says it's not all that great, but the rest of my brain is telling it to shut up.

See, my incomplete thought about this here poem is that if I were like that, if I were a book, it would be too easy. As much as I sometimes wish I could just hand myself to someone and let them find out all about me, I know deep down that I wouldn't like it very much. For one thing, books have no say over who reads them, but besides that, say that I did decide who read me or not, even then I wouldn't want to do it. I get nervous around people who seem to know me too well, too quickly.

I have emotional walls and boundaries, and these walls tell me how much a person has invested in me. If they have successfully negotiated through the maze into my inner sanctum, well, then I know that they have put time and effort into getting to know me. They want to know me. They've spent way too much to just drop me, walk away from me.

If I were a book, easily read, then how would I know who to trust? If anyone could know my secrets, then how would I know who I could depend on? Friendship is not easy. Being my friend is not easy.

before|random|after