TRUST ME

There is a woman beside the closet's door in my bedroom. 

She is staring at me, like if she knew me better than myself. 

She looks mad, heart-broken, and she has this hopeless look in her eyes. 

I think she is mad at me; I think she is disappointed with me. 

She is looking at me as if I could read her mind and if I could know what I did wrong, and I think I know, deeper inside of me. All those things I said I was okay with, she is not. All those behaviours I said I was willing to tolerate, it turns out she's not. 

I know that she is getting older, and sometimes she thinks she would be able to bare anything to have a little happiness in her life; to fulfill her heart. I support her in every thought, any step, and moment of meditation. The problem is I believe her all the time. And when we appear to be in the middle of an uncomfortable situation, she gets mad at me, and she looks at me as if everything was my fault. And maybe it is. 

That woman might be right, but she knows I can't stand mental games, so, if she tells me something, I will believe her, no matter what. If it turns out, she didn't mean it, or she wasn't sure, that is not my fault entirely. 

One of my ugliest defects is that I'm a literal person. If someone tells me I want to meet you at noon tomorrow, well, I understand that he or she wants to see me the next day at noon. I'm so literal that sometimes I cannot understand jokes of those people who laugh first and talk after. 

I think she knows me very well, and she knows all these things about me. I believe this is what she loves about me and what she hates at the same time. 

I want you to know that I'm here for you, and I'm going to protect you from everything and everyone. I know it hurts, I know you felt happy for an instance and then felt crushed. But I will do my best to make you feel better and to heal your heart. Trust me.