I do not know the callings of connection. Linking one heart to the next, only bruises. I know not the beauty that strings from the correlation of common affection; blood or not. I am strangely distant in my taking of such things.
Arms length is my comfort, it is the distance I allow my heart. Even then, I am cautious to contemplate the display of it. Even in the ideal of family I pose a gap between each member. Most would seem that I am reposed in my position of such a thing.
Friends, and dare I say family; see me as welcoming and open. But I steer between the fine lines of loving and caring. I skate the outer lines of it all, keeping my hands to my back and heart to my chest. No need, nor the want of my pulse to pump from sleeve.
For there, any can see its pattern and carefully concoct a scheme to poison. To place me beneath a spell and travel with little discretion. I fear I was born with an unpleasant amount of empathy, even my enemy I care deeply for.
Why? This I c…