If I could write myself a love letter,
what would I say?
What could I say—
to the woman who cries at the push of a button,
whose insecurities press in like hands around her throat,
whose mind spins at the slightest pressure,
the mere thought of others,
the weight of expectation.
The world fears her,
but she is the one who is frozen.
Scared.
Sometimes, she steps outside—
with tequila’s push.
It used to be whiskey.
I miss the whiskey days.
Wine is always.
Beer, most nights.
We even went crazy once,
chugged Malört for a week.
This woman?
This bold, wild, chaotic force—
Scared?
But the liquor helps.
It makes her feel normal.
It gives her something to blame.
Without it, she is lost,
searching for direction,
drowning in sounds she never needed to hear,
absorbing everything,
not knowing what sticks
and what slips away.
She is the wind,
brushing rooftops,
whispering through the trees.
She is the rabbit,
darting from yard to yard,
never still, never safe.
She is the woman
sitting alone in a room,
crying until the walls blur,
until time disappears.
She is the one
who stays there,
and bawls.
All day long.