It’s not that we have hearts of steel, it’s just that we don’t give our hearts to just anyone because we have work deadlines and dreams to pursue and oh my god it’s distracting to really like someone.
“Every time you tell your daughter you yell at her out of love you teach her to confuse anger with kindness which seems like a good idea till she grows up to trust men who hurt her cause they look so much like you.”
I am my mother’s daughter
which is to say I am aware of my own strengths
so I don’t need you to remind me what they are.
You aren’t afraid of looking foolish.
As a novelist who continues to be a practitioner of the art of fiction in the last years of my eighth decade, I have been asked repeatedly how one can avoid the memory blocks that so often plague older people.
I wear your blue checkerboard boxers when the sun forces itself inside my room, a sweltering of heat usually caused by your lips on my neck.
I’d rather stitch myself back together than never know how it feels to come apart for someone wonderful.
My fingers still hesitate sometimes and I don’t know why it’s so scary to be steady with you.
How silly, that a heart icon could make me feel tingly and nervous. My fingers get trigger happy and want to text you. But I don’t know. I’m afraid of being too much.
The boy will be wearing a collared shirt and hug you when he walks into the room. You do not want to let go, but there are too many people.