I’m not very good at speaking of love,
I fear I don’t quite understand it.
You see — I hadn’t much experience in it.

But, I curse the desire that builds every day in hopes
of  finding it, feeling it.
I long for the warmth it brings, the safety and comfort
I hear so many speak about it, what I read about in fairytales.

My heart aches for some resemblance of it.
I wish to find someone to speak me —
Understanding the language of me,
who peers inside me, holds every pieces of me.

Cradles me, whispers to me —
I am loved, every fractured piece of me.

Oh, how I wish to know what that experience is like.
Perhaps, love is just not for me.

Anxiety won…
The ever growing whirlpool
Beckoning me to be swept away ,
Slowly filling my lungs with doubt, fear and resentment
It swallows me whole,
Spiralling, further and further into nothingness.

Anxiety won…
I’m unable to pull myself out,
And I fear no one else is around to help me.

Letting go —  is something I need to practice.
Why should I hold on to things that cause me pain.

I stand here on fire, seeking no relief, engulfed in blistering agony..
I won’t allow myself to extinguish the flames licking at my skin.
In fear that I might be just imaging things.

I don’t cry out, I don’t say a word —
I watch as my skin melts,
beads of moister gathering in the corner of my eyes,
Rolling down my cheek, these tears give little alleviation.

I walk further into the fire, as proof to myself,
This isn’t bad, I’m just being sensitive.