It isnt the fact.

It isn't the fact.
It's the fact.
The fact that it's new.
The fact that you.
You are new.
It isn't the fact that I don't trust you.
It isn't the fact that I don't know.
It's the fact that I am scared.
The fact that maybe I don't trust myself.
The fact that my past is filled with a lot of colors.
You know when you look back on a memory and that one specific color is there.
Maybe a red.
Maybe a blue.
Maybe a purple.
Maybe it was a brown.
Or a grey.
Or a black.
You don't know where or why this color is so prominent.
It's just there.
Maybe it was a shirt you were wearing.
Maybe it was the color of the sky that day.
Maybe it was the toenail polish your mama had on that day.
Maybe it was the color of your lens in your sunglasses.
Or Maybe it was that specific black.
The specific black you see when you close your eyes.
I feel like it's different for everyone.
But for me this black was scary.
It wasn't because I couldn't see.
It was because I could hear.
Hear the words.
Hear the sorrow.
Hear the pain.
But this wasn't when I was so young I could still my mom's toes without have yo actually look.
This was the time where I could paint my own toes.
This was the time where I had trouble with life.
The acne.
The puberty.
The growing up.
But most of all it was the words.
The words that came from lips that should be stitched shut.
The words that pinned me to my mattress.
But it wasn't just words.
It was silent tears that shadowed my cheek bones.
It was silent tears that helped me see.
Helped me see that black.
That black that is different.
Different for everyone when they escape.
When they try to escape those nightmares.
Those memories you don't want to look back on but can't help.
It was the click of the door lock.
The lock symbolized so many things.
It symbolized that I was helpless.
It symbolized there was nothing I could do.
It symbolized screams.
It symbolized drunken movements.
It symbolized flashbacks.
It symbolized fear.
But it symbolized protection.
You did it for me.
But it symbolizes trust issues.
Trust issues of others.
Not just all the others.
But others who aren't my mother.
Others who are like this man.
This man you protected me from
This man's son who targeted me.
Targeted me the way he targeted her.
So you're wondering.
Wondering what does this have to do with me.
Wondering why.
Wondering what.
What do I mean.
I mean that words spoken from lips that are sober can be worse than words spoken from drunken ones.
I want you to be happy.
I want you to understand.
Every time my tounge forms this story, I shake inside.
I want to cry but I can't.
I want to scream but they are silent.
I feel alone.
I feel frightened.
Because what if I speak my mind?
If I speak my mind is what happened to her going to happen to me.
Will I be treated the same way.
Will I be listened to the way she wanted to be.
Will I be trusted that way she thought she was by the little hands and little feet.
Will I?
This black holds memories of fear.
But protection.
So when words from you.
Words from you of an offer to others.
Other people.
Others you would spend 6 hours with in a car.
Others you would experience this concert with.
Others other than me.
I get nervous.
I get scared.
But it's all because it's new to me.
Its new because my past makes my future.
Because I feel as if I can trust you.
Because I feel you would understand.
This blackness was full of other women for him.
But she pretended she didn't know.
And this blackness brings back fear.
Fear.
Fear of being the one to threaten.
The one to beat.
The one to take it all.
The one who is t good enough.
Maybe it's because it's new.
Maybe it's because I'm still scared.
But can you do something
Something he wouldn't do for me.
Can you promise me.
Promise me that if I don't go.
And you spend 6 hours with another girl.
Promise me that I won't become the one to threaten.
I won't become the one to beat.
I will still be the one that your tounge chooses to name.
I will still be the one your head chooses to think about.
I will still be the one your heart chooses to love.
I will still be the one.
It isn't the fact.
It's the fact.
The fact that it's new.
The fact that you.
You are new.

It Was Something New.

It was some thing new.
Some thing new, yet so familiar.
You know when you've done some thing.
Expierenced some thing.
Heard it.
Felt it.
Took it in.
A million times before, yet it's different.
Different when something in your life changes.
Maybe it was a drastic change.
Maybe it was a small change and you didn't notice.
That's what it was like with you.

With you, again.
Maybe it's because you were on my mind.
Maybe it's because your name lingered on my lips.
But when I had first lit the candle and without thinking I bent over to smell it.
Not to smell what the candle would smell like when when the wax melted.
But that short moment.
That moment when you can smell the heat.
The heat of the fire.
The heat of the wick.
The moment when it brings you a short euphoria.
An euphoria of bliss.
A euphoria of hunger.
A euphoria of wanderlust.

I've done this since I was a child.
After my mom would light the candles.
Each and every one.
I would love the smell of the heat.
It brought me to my own world.
And now you bring me back.
Back to the world of many things I felt as a child.
The excitement.
The curiosity.
The wonderment.
The confusion.
The feelings.

I haven't experienced anything like this in a long time.
The way your soft lips touch mine.
The way your smile tastes.
The way your hands are rough against my skin.
How your fingers explore the mountains of goose bumps along my spine.
How your breath rushes down my neck.
How your eyelashes feel when the brush against my cheek bone.
How and the way your body picks up my signals.
The way your mouth forms the words you speak to me.
The way your eyes glisten when you get excited.
The way your face speaks your true feelings.
How you talk with your hands without noticing it.
How you express what you feel inside through your body.
How you love your guilty pleasures and secrets.
How you explain.
How you love.

I spent just a short few hours with you.
On two desperate occasions.
One were we didn't know.
One were we did know.
What we didn't know.
What we do know.
We figured it out on two sepereate occasions.
We figured out what we didn't know when we knew.
We figured out what we did know when we didn't know.

You're the way the wick burns.
You're the way the heat smells for a short second.
You're the old memories of my childhood.
You're the way I didt know.
You're the way my body relaxes when I smell the heat
You're the way the heat feels on the tip of my nose.
You're the way my childhood is relived.
But in a completely different way.
I didn't know at the time.
The time I was 5.
The time I was 6.
The time I was 7.
Or maybe even 8.
I didn't know that I would find the man.
The man who lead me back to my childhood.
The childhood of feeling protected behind my mother.
Behind my mother when she lit the candles.
When I ran to smell the heat.
The heat of my future.
The heat of my past.
The heat of my dreams.

Then.
It was something new, yet so familiar.
It was something new.