You long to know what it is to want once more. To feel what it is to yield.
Hardened in self-control, in poise, in static splendour; you’ve become divorced from yourself.
You make love not through your skin, but through your writing. That which is made up of all parts of you; the wounded girl, the fetishist, the pagan bride, the mystic, the childless mother, the violent pragmatist, the muse, the lover, the loved… the hurting-to-be-loved.
You’ve been running from yourself, from him, from her, from the hateful anonymous, from the loving choir.
There is nothing more terrifying than the embrace of full potential.
So you have become the pale, fearful woman, afraid to let the light that breaks through your core be seen. For it shows people how to find you. And if they find you, they can hurt you.
And if they find you, they can love you.