He said he likes that I can cry so easily.

That he sees it as a release.

Cathartic, even.

But all I’ve ever known from it is weakness.

Helplessness as a child.

Stuck in the room with purple walls and that popcorn ceiling.

I wrote poetry of my hearts pain,

And the wrinkles of past tears stained the pages.

It was a kind of numbness that follows the tears.

The one that makes me feel like a monster...

He asked me,

“What are your love languages?”

And I stared at the screen.

No one has ever asked me that,

Nor do I think I’ve ever thought about it.

Because how I love, is by giving.

I give whatever they might need,

Whenever,

However.

In desperation to feel loved,

Appreciated.

My mind races as I try to figure out how to tell this stranger I have no clue.

Until I decide I can’t fake it anymore.

...

I’ve known chaos.

She lingers in my chest each night.

She knows me, inside and out.

In my childhood,

My adulthood,

And my career.

School felt safer than home,

Love felt dangerous,

And sirens surround the sick.

But what happens when I can’t sense her tingling on the back of my neck?

It brings a sense of unease.

All that I’ve known is how to live fast.

Recklessly.

And yet…

A gentle embrace,

A...