Black Paint

There’s a deep secret part of me that I don’t show to people. If I open that door and let you look inside it means that I trust you. I don’t trust a lot of people fully.

Not now.
Not ever.
Always.
It’s full of vulnerability and sadness, this place I don’t show people.
It has a door and no windows.
I opened my door to you and I showed you what was inside.
At first you embraced my secrets; my darkness and you showed me your hands. They were covered in the black paint that was still wet from my secret room. I smiled when I noticed your hands. You had touched a part of me. You weren’t afraid.

Then you looked at your hands and saw they were dripping with paint. Your hands began to tremble and you looked at me standing in the doorway and shook your head.

“I’m sorry.” You said “I can’t.”

I watched as you closed the door. I walked up to the wall where your hand had touched the paint. I ran my fingers over it. I imagined I could smell you.

But you were gone. My hands are sticky and I know you are never coming back.

I’m waiting to open that door again.