Heartstrings

When you say my name, my heartstrings start to quiver. When you look my way, I feel a little strum from the harp of strings connecting my thoughts and feelings. When you touch my hand, my heart starts to beat out of my chest so rapidly that the strings have to pull with all their might to stop me from handing you my heart and my all.

Heartstrings are the only thing keeping me from giving myself to you. They tie me to the fence post of doubt and splash me with buckets full of reality. Reality that you won't love me. That you don't love me. Heartstrings are the only thing keeping me from kissing you. From kissing you daily. In the middle of class, right after the bus, in front of your parents, during our movie parties, during our damn walks I just have to kiss you, I have to kiss you now, but I can't. Because my heartstrings forbid it. They forbid me to even look at you. Because when I do, legions and legions of doubt and insecurity come flowing from my chest trying to build an immunity to you. Because you will infect me with your smile, your giggle, and your eyes. The very thoughts of you infects me so much that I have had hospital visits to get special antibiotics intended for killing off the thoughts of you, the dreams of you. And I let them.