To feel deeply in this world is to bleed slowly.
It is to walk through fire with bare feet
while others praise the virtue of numbness.

They say: Don’t love too much.
Don’t care too loudly.
Don’t be the one who stays when it’s easier to leave.

But I have never been able to touch halfway.
My love is ruinous.
I enter like a cathedral collapses—
all at once, with smoke and sacred noise.

I fall in love like it’s a calling,
like God Himself whispered their name into my ribs
and told me:
Here. This one. Burn for this one.

And I do.
Even when the world hands me a thousand reasons not to.
Even when it tells me connection is a game,
hearts are currency,
and tenderness is a flaw
to be corrected.

But I was not made for apathy.
I was not made for clever texts and ghosted evenings.
I was made for aching truth,
for eyes that don’t look away,
for conversations that scrape the soul clean.

I do not want half of anyone.
I want the whole,
even if it wounds me.

Because what is the point of living
if we are not willing to suffer
for something sacred?

They say:
You care too much.
As if it were a weakness.
As if they have not read the Psalms—
as if Christ did not sweat blood in the garden
out of love for a world
that would spit in His face.

There is glory in feeling it all.
Even when it rips you open.
Especially when it rips you open.

Let them scoff.
Let them sleepwalk through their half-lives.
I will keep loving like it matters.
Because it does.
And someone must remember.