She makes me want to tell her things. There are a great many things I still have left to tell. Secrets. Secrets of secrets, of yet more secrets. Truths. Truths hidden deep in the depths of my personal hell hole. Things I buried because of superstition and fear. Things that grew, despite my efforts in killing them. Things that sprouted beneath my feet as I stomped over them. Things that reached out and grabbed my ankles so that I fell over, time and time again.
She's taken me to the verge of the precipice, to the very edge. She tells me, "you don't have to jump, but if you want to, I'll be there to catch you".
So I began my story, and I've told her everything. At least everything that I remember, everything that I know and believe to be true. I have stumbled over the interpretations, but I've put it out there, the best I can.
She makes me want to tell her things. Even the secrets. Even the secrets of secrets. Even the superstitions. The fear. And if I don't know how to express it, she's seen it in my eyes. And she knows. And she understands. And she doesn't judge me. And she thanks me. She thanks me. Because she knows how hard it is, without me ever having to tell her.