stop, my sweet. I whisper to myself. stop. please. I plead at times. I’m growing, and yet I’m in the same place. Like a houseplant in perfect sun.
I don't love you. I don’t want to. I won’t settle.
I’d rather sleep with all the windows open in 19 degree weather than keep them all closed and suffocate in the lukewarm stagnant air.
10 years ago, I struggled to understand my place in a catholic high school with too many people who didn’t care about me because they were too busy caring about themselves. 5 years ago, I was fresh out of college with a beautiful sort of depth, that found me in New York on roof tops being admired and admiring, and in the back of cabs that felt like the first roller coaster I ever rode.
I’ve never truly understood the concept of a partner, but my seemingly never ending craving for one has educated me in a way that seems fitting.
Hold on. my sweet. We may be too young. I’ve whispered to myself. I’ve loved across distance. The distance disappears when the person on the other end leaves.
What if. It’s the most damaging start to an end I’ve ever known. I put too much stock in the initial touch of my hands to someone who I find a feeling towards.
I have to survive. And I’m
nearly sure I have to shed a part of me that houses more fear than strength. I’m sure.