It’s funny how getting to know someone new forces you to meet parts of yourself you never noticed before.When this started, I was pretty confident.

I know how to love a man, I thought. It’s my expertise. It’s the thing I’m best at.

I know how to make a man feel wanted, important, loved. Which parts to fill, which parts to drain. How to give everything and ask for nothing. How to trace the gaps in his life and mould myself to fill them perfectly.

It’s so dreadfully easy, so pleasurable, to love you the way I do.

But here’s the truth: I’m also afraid of being loved by you. I’m afraid you’ll turn out to be just like the others.

I’m afraid the novelty will wear. I’m afraid I’ll be unable to keep your attention. I’m afraid you’ll take me for granted. I’m afraid you’ll choose newness, or let me become wallpaper in your life. I’m afraid I’ll stretch my limits to meet your needs, and it will never be enough. I’m afraid the realities of my life will be too much for you…or maybe too little. I’m afraid you’ll let me love you so well you reach your wildest dreams—dreams that will pull you away, into bigger cities and fuller bosoms.

And I’ll be right where I am now.

Older, with less to give and nothing gained.

So when I serve you love, and you volley it back, I freeze. I let it fall and roll away.

I need that care more than you know, and find it unbearable to accept—like a moth on a hot lamp. The love you offer sticks in my throat, burns going down.

Because if I let it in too deep, it’ll erode my defences. I’ll give you the very pulp of me. Surrender. Line myself up to be destroyed.

And the irony is I think you feel the same way. I think you’re just as protective of that inner world as I am, but sometimes you give me a peek behind the curtain.

I promise I come in peace. Your fears, your worries, your heart...they're safe with me.

Am I safe with you?