Philophobia

In the beginning, you will see galaxies in my eyes.

You will tell me I am magic. That without even trying I can see the hidden parts that you keep locked away. You will swear that you’ve never felt connection like this before.

You will ask yourself how someone you have known for such a short time could make you feel so infinite.

You will lay your soul bare for me to see, knowing that I will pour liquid gold into its broken parts. Trusting that I can make you unbreakable, you will give yourself to me entirely, unapologetically, frantically.

In return, you will plant flowers in my hollow chest and I will thrive as they bloom. And so, I too will give myself to you, completely, blindly, desperately.

But then, the fear will come.

And you, along with the gold that holds your fractured soul together, will congeal and harden.

You will think of my eyes, and the depths of you they have seen, and resentment will drip from your tongue.

You will rip the flowers from my chest, one by one. Until the garden you planted is nothing more than barren soil. Ashes and dust that I will be left to sweep away long after you are gone.

Your fear will tell you I am too much, and so you will go.

The emptiness of my chest will remind me that I am not enough, and so I will not blame you.