I hear her advocating trust
and touch the places where my burn scars lie
hidden underneath my skin
against my heart and warning my shy brain.
I always want to trust,
in spite of all the times it was foolish of me;
like I used to want to give my love,
hoping I might get some in return.
neither proposition worked out well—
although it seems my luck
might have found a fairer wind of late.
this scowl she shrinks from is the face of wariness,
put on too late for full protection.
I wear it like an amulet,
not wholly convinced the maker knew his art.
another kind of trust, in a weaker vessel,
for I'm the maker and my art is relatively new.
learned at your hands,
my faith in the teacher undermines my sk**