It scares me to know that I can write pages upon pages of one little action of yours. I’m completely at your mercy—overthinking, questioning absolutely everything—and you have no idea. I’m scared to know what would happen if you did.
Is my heart safe in your keeping? Can you handle it? Care for it?
From the recent rollercoaster of emotions I’ve been going through, I’d say you don’t quite know what to do with the thing. Though I can’t exactly blame you—I don’t either—perhaps that’s why I so readily offered it to you.
How goddamn foolish of me.