I Was Not Made To Love Quietly

I was not made to love quietly. I have never known how to do it. I shout my emotions without thinking twice. I unzip myself for the entire world to see.

As a little girl, I made a habit of standing in my backyard when the sun was just beginning to set and belting show tunes. I’d tell the moon about my crush, how beautiful his eyes were, how his handwriting was the best in class. I feel like I should apologize to my neighbors. That maybe I should track them down and say, “Listen, I’m sorry for all those off-key renditions of Chicago you had to endure. You’re real troopers.”

My heart has always been an open book that I’ve never learned how to shut. Is that beautiful? Is that something to fear? My softness, so unwilling to be anything other than soft, soft, soft.

There’s a nervousness blurting out every eager thought I have. I bite my lip, but it never seems to do much. It spills out when I’m not expecting it, when I’ve told myself to play it cool. Move slowly, you’re going to scare everyone with how fast you fall.

They’re going to think you love too hard.

A boy once told me I was loud in bed. At first, I hid my embarrassed face. My cheeks all tomato red, afraid my volume was too much. I was too much.

Now I wonder, if my orgasm isn’t the thing making all that noise. It’s my love, my heart, the thumping in my chest I’ve never been able to drown out.