Anatomy of Trust

I used to hand my trust out like free samples,

tiny paper cups of myself at every table.

The first betrayals should’ve been enough,

But hope is a stubborn stomach.

◠ ◡

These days, I’m slower with the pouring.

I read people’s texts like contracts,

circle the “always,” underline the “never,”

Leave the red flags unignored for once.

◠ ◡

Still, when you laugh from your whole chest,

Something inside my ribs reaches for a pen.

You ask how I’m really doing

and wait through the awkward silence,

no scrolling, no “anyway” escape hatch.

◠ ◡

I tell you a small truth first,

just a crack in the shell:

I hate sleeping with the door closed,

I save voicemails I should delete.

You don’t flinch, don’t fix,

Just say, “same,” and somehow I believe you.

◠ ◡

I show you where past promises bruised the blueprint,

smudges of “forever” in someone else’s handwriting.

You trace the lines without pressing too hard,

Leave room in the margins for edits.

◠ ◡

Trust, I’m learning, is not a grand unveiling

but a series of tiny doors left unlocked—

sending the text before overthinking it,

letting you see my browser history,

falling asleep on a call by accident

and waking up to you still there, breathing.

◠ ◡

My heart drafts another plan in pencil, whispering, Maybe we can build again.