Keep Out. Please.

I stumble back.

Try to catch my breath.

It's not coming easily.

I finally manage to suck in a sharp, painful--yet welcome--gasp of air.

I regain my composure.

I walk a few steps, reach down.

I pick up a sign.

I sadly smile to myself.

I want to be amused at my naivety.

Humor is the farthest thing from my mind.

I brush the dust off the sign.

I'm surprised at how much had gathered in the short time in which I had set it down.


I hang it back on my heart.

It reads: Keep Out.

I decide it needs more. I add one word.

Keep Out. Please.



You seemed nice.

It was nice.

You were cute.

It was cute.


I protect myself once more. With the sign, with the knowledge:

Knowledge that I am okay alone.

More than okay. I am happy. Alone.


But for how long?

I do long.

Now.

For you.

For that.


I am a whole person.

I do not need another.


Keep Out. Please.


I thought I could keep you all out.

Then you affected me. Emotionally. Physically.



I took down my sign.

Let you in.


Now I have to pretend that I never did.