If I don’t respond to your approaches,
I am truly sorry.
I’m used to being treated
And being ignored,
My rusty heart,
My leaking pen,
My rice-paper skin,
My soul of bone.
If I don’t believe your kindness,
It’s just hard for me.
Such things just don’t happen.
Is it more trickery?
Once upon a time I was stronger
And I could afford to love and trust.
Now, with a hide of scars and bruises
I stay safe and get by as I must