The line I draw

This line in the sand isn’t where my limit is, it’s where your limit with me is. I don’t know where my limit is, because it’s somewhere behind me, and I’m facing you, making sure you see where my toe is tracing.

I don’t know where my limit is, because I’ve always been stopped before I got there: just at the point where fun edges into pain and pain can glimpse the possibility of discomfort, he’ll stop. I don’t have to test anything. I don’t have to admit to where I might be afraid to go, because I’m not lead there. And I won’t admit to being afraid of anything.

I think my limit stretches into the boundless distance, and I don’t want to think it might be closer than anywhere that is not out of eyeshot. My limits for everyone else are much closer, and I’ll decide if we can inch over them, or push them back, slightly, redrawing the line, or giving it a little outward curve now and then.

I might even accept a line drawn not by me, if my hand is held tightly enough by trust. I’ll close my eyes and allow myself to be shown where it is. I don’t like it when you dare me to close my eyes for you. I know you’ll estimate my line, and draw it farther back.

I’m facing you, and I see where your limits stretch to, and I’m afraid mine are closer than yours, and I’ll have to tell you. I think you’ll want to take me to your line, not mine, or that you think we should share the same one. But I think that when I reach it, I’ll know not to go over it, and you won’t.

I don’t want to be the one to stop. I don’t want to admit defeat. But I don’t want to end up broken on the other side, either, so I won’t turn round, and look at where I can’t go.