Talking to him is like handing someone my day-old baby.
It’s like that first meal you cook for someone. Or that first time you get on stage, quivering.
No sense in reiterating—babies have been dropped before. People have been laughed off stage, and others have caught fake smiles from their dry chicken parmesan.
And I know his heart is likely as scratched, brusied, scraped, and used as mine but who is to know how this stranger protects his own.
I’ve come to a point where one more gash and my heart will scab over and be thrown in a tiger cage with the words “DO NOT FEED” standing scarecrow.