I’m not fond of small and complicated things. Like how sewing needs careful precision, so the small thread can fit through the smaller needle. Like those tiny and intricate ships are constructed inside a bottle for decoration. It’s delicate, and easy to break. I'm not patient, quick, or skilled with my hands. The thread would jab in the needle, and the wooden pieces of the ship would break between my fingers. The feeling of inadequacy creeps over me. It lingers above my head, jeering and pointing, as frustration becomes wet and sharp in my eyes. Anger shoves the broken ship wood pieces in front of me, and ties the discarded thread around my arms, binding my hands, reminding me I’m not capable of handling things with care. This feeling isn’t foreign to me though. There's something even worse than handling ships and thread. Something more fragile and weak.

Your confession. It crumbles and dusts to grain beneath my grasp, no matter how gentle I want to be. It’s slippery and quick. A fish that does not want to be caught. Fine. I’ll let it flounder in my arms, back into the sea, and swim away from me then. I cannot take care of your feelings anyway. Or mine. So you can save your feelings, save your revelation, and save the throbbing ache of heart. Take the discarded bottle that was supposed to be used for the wooden ship, and bottle up your feelings instead. Then use the needle and thread I once used, to sew the bottle shut. They will be safe there. Don’t worry, I will not touch it, for it will break if I do. Your feelings belong in that bottle. It’s much prettier than my broken ship that once was in there.

And when you move on, and forget your bottle, I can finally enjoy your love without fear of destruction. I can dismantle the thread without guilt, and open the bottle which was meant for me. The top brims with your slippery and delicate feelings, and it’s full and warm with care. Then I can pour them on me, ignoring the cold glass that presses cruelly against my lips, and drink your honeyed gift. “O’ tender feelings,” I will say, “you give still waters to the raging sea we call, ‘world.” I indulge you from a distance, and the love I don’t deserve. Because feelings are delicate and difficult, intricate and precise. And I’m not fond of small and complicated things.