I Might Let You Read It One Day

Thing is, this piece I'm writing, bares my entire soul. It involves you and me and all that we love and hold dear. It's told from my perspective, one that I think you need to hear.

But if I let you read it, I am crucifying myself. The sacrifice it entails for me to give that last shred of my soul over to scrutiny is purest agony and purest love.

The tears I weep even now at the merest thought of your eyes taking in a chapter of the whole piece are swiftly staunched by my resolve. It's not ready.

I'm not ready.

Will I ever be so bold?

I nearly did it almost a year ago. I nearly shared with you the unedited draft.

I'm very glad I didn't. It's so much bigger and better now. It's grown and matured into something far more beautiful and far more coveted by my heart.

I'm proud of it as a work, but not proud of it as an admission of who I am.

Perhaps when this time in my life is over, I will release my grip upon this tale.

Or nail myself up with the words within.