You met Phoenix in college, the one you wrote off as creepy because you couldn’t handle his intensity. The one on the train who couldn’t take his soft brown eyes off you. The one who confessed his dream to be a famous guitarist. The one who professed his love to you. He’s actually your soulmate, so please stop treating him as if he doesn’t belong anywhere near you.
If you allow him into your heart, imagine the cozy nights you’d have in his bed, sharing things no one in your life understands.
You take his hand in yours and tell him about the time you saw a little girl standing in the doorway of your childhood bedroom. That you called out to her hoping it was your sister, but she was sound asleep in the bed beside you. How it terrifies you to this day. You tell him that your nightmares at age 5 stem from when your kindergarten teacher slapped you after catching you play with that girl’s hair. That she pulled you out by your ear from the closet you locked yourself in out of fear.
Phoenix wraps you up in his arms, your voice shaking as you verbalize your social anxiety. It was one of the reasons you couldn’t speak to him initially.
You confide that multiple personalities live within you, each with their unique thoughts and feelings, each wanting their own life. You battle them daily—they don’t represent you and what you stand for. They manifested from your desire to give up control and be replaced by someone else.
Congratulations, you’ve left your own skin, and you don’t even recognize the shattered mess you’ve become. You don’t trust yourself not to commit a crime of passion someday, and not for him, but for yourself.
He runs his fingers gently along your forehead, the electricity of his energy clearing your mind. He caresses your fears, makes love to your shame, and holds you close to his chest of secrets. Whatever is locked there will only affirm his understanding and solidify his attraction to you.
Instead of giving self-love, you’re enough, you’re worthy cliches, he cups your face in his hands, kisses you gently, and tells you that you’re poetry. That’s all it takes for you to know that he loves you more than you love yourself.
“Your words are stuck here,” he whispers while caressing your solar plexus. Your personal genie stares deeply into your eyes as your light pours out, like the peace of raindrops hitting your window. His tongue is now in your mouth, and he massages your clit in a way that you can’t touch yourself, a volcano you never knew existed erupting between you.
He inspires the most raw and intimate poetry you’ve ever written. He lays you down on a bed of roses. You wake up to peanut butter cups and a handwritten love letter tucked under a glass of sangria—he remembers you hate the taste of dry wine.
You sip the edge of smoke, sweet freedom trembling in your head. You barely think of her. Just imagine, if you don’t let this man shake the cage out of you and set fire to it after, then your destiny is her icy touch, up and down your back, and her closed eyes while she lets you feed her your insides.
He’s waiting patiently at your door. It’s not too late to let him in.