If I gave you my feet, would you hold them, care for them with love and tenderness? Would you, if I? Because, you see, if I gave you my feet, I would obviously never walk again. So promise that, if I gave you my feet, you’d never go away.
Or my arms, if I gave you my arms, my hands included and my fingers, would you make sure they were safe? And would you supply me with all that I needed because I could not reach for it myself? If I gave you my inner organs, would you think, beat and breathe for me? Would you, if I?
But, you see, I would never give you any of me. I need it all for myself; my shoulders to take on the weight of this world, my toes to balance myself upon. My entire anatomy is dear to me and I cannot entrust it to you. No matter your promises, despite all that.
Because I’ve seen your phone with it’s cracked screen, the chipped corners. And I’ve seen the way you treat your library books; the last had to be replaced, it was so soaked.
How could I ever trust you with any of me?
Considering you might, if I?