Trust is a Verb

Tell me, what does it feel like?

Death.

Really? Death? Why do you say that?

Because it’s like giving part of myself away.

Um, can you explain?

Not very well.

Say what you can.

Fine. Each time it’s a risk,
like stepping through a door into an unknown world.
Anything can happen. Anything at all.
And even if you know the person on the other side,
or even if that person is right next to you, holding your hand,
you can’t know, you can’t really know that you’re safe,
because how well do you ever really know a person?

Tell me more.

What more is there to tell?

I don’t see how that translates into giving yourself away.

Well, because it means giving over control.
Allowing…

Someone to hurt you?

Yes! Exactly. I mean, people will always hurt us.
That’s reality. But to accept the hurt in advance, in a sense,
to grant permission, to surrender,
to become vulnerable – that’s like death.

And how is that like death?

Whether you give them all or a part of your heart,
or your mind, or your dreams, or your time, or your body,
or your secrets, you still give.
You give. Yourself. Away.
You lose yourself. Parts of yourself anyway.
And losing yourself feels an awful lot like death.

Very interesting…. No. No. I’m sorry. Don’t stop. Keep going.

Often, you get nothing in return. And you’re
left with less of yourself to give.
But nothing is better than something when that something
is pain, rejection, words that cut your heart
like shards of glass.

Ever consider just giving up, not trying anymore?

All the time. Who wants to
die over and over again, day in and day out?
But it’s the only way to live.
I know…that’s a paradox or something, right?

Right. At least, it sure sounds like one. To die is the only way to live?

Crazy, I know. As I said, hard to explain.
The thing is, trying to hold onto ourselves,
to possess our selves, is a bit like squeezing our
palms over a handful of sand or a flickering flame –
the sand runs out, the flame dies.
In holding too tightly, you lose.

But then how can anyone trust at all?

See, we often think of trust as a feeling –
a safe, secure, baby-at-the-breast sort of feeling.
But I think trust is something we do, something we choose.
If we want to truly live, to freely love
we take the risk, believe in the best of the other person,
even though we never know what may come.
And it feels cold, solid, even sharp like the blade
of a knife – cutting away all that’s mortal and temporary.
To live, we give ourselves away
and die time and time again.

© Nichole Liza Q.

Written, with much fear and loathing, for Writing 201 Poetry; Day 3: Trust, Acrostic, Internal Rhyme