i’ve had my body ripped into pieces at the hand of a delicate man,

i’ve lost my autonomy to a gentle heart,

and had my mouth covered by a pleading soul.

you             are not what i am used to.

you are not brutally delicate, nor aggressively gentle like the others.

you                      are kind. but in a broken way.

you are so thoughtful, that it hurts me, as i see you take away your problems out of fear of making them mine.

you                                are not what i am used to.

you are loving. but in an obscure kind of way.

you are so caring, that it saddens me to hear your silence, and to know that it is necessary to your happiness.

 

the silence i am used to was cured with hands and lips everywhere.

 

and somehow

                      yours is scarier.

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