the walls are for me

I know you. I think I do. But in knowing you I am certain that there is something you are hiding from me. Something that embarrasses you. And boom. You move away and put your walls up. Like me getting closer and finding out your secret would cause a bigger damage to your life than we trying out and not working out. I pretend I don’t see that it is much easier for you to keep your distance from me than to open that door and let me in because realising it is hard. Why is it so easy for you and for the people who came before you to choose not to open up with me? To like me or sometimes even love me but to never be ready to be with me — for the love to not ever be strong enough to be the driving force of someone’s action — strong enough to break down the walls and smash it all over. What do I have to do? Is it about me? I like to think it isn’t but it is becoming such a pattern in my life that it is impossible to deny it or to try to blind myself to it. Am I delusional? Am I such a dreamer that I actually create the chemistry, the sparks, the looks and the exchange of flirtations in my head? Am I really creating a world of happenings and exchanges and feelings that only exists in the realms of my imagination? How do I separate reality from fiction? I look at you. And I do see you looking at me. I lost count of the amount of times our eyes crossed each other last time I saw you. But I also saw you flirting with someone else. With a girl who so easily took your stare away from me. Was the stare real in the first place? She had you with your guards down — with her they were never up. That’s only with me. The fear, the walls, the guards; those are reserved for me.