Empathy tugs at the thin mask over my face,

begging me to surrender.

I resist. 

You lay in front of me, bare but not naked,

trusting me with your flaws (read: beauty). 

My eyes grow warm, swelling,

begging me to surrender. 

I resist. 

What good would my empathy do?

I am your rock, not your responsibility.

And though I yearn to destroy your misery

or, at the very least, surrender to my instincts and feel your pain,

I must remember that I am your rock. 

Reveal your flaws without fear.

Reveal your suffering layer by layer,

and do not question whether or not I will be okay. 

I will be there for you, no questions asked.

I am your rock, my love,

I am not your responsibility.