I warn them about the chaos and the turbulence. I tell them about the emotions and the past. I recount all of the ways I embody a soul too difficult to handle.
I am open about my inability to feel less and my lack of evasive mystery. I open up my chest and dissect each ventricle of my heart with bare hands. I demonstrate how I restitch my own broken seams that often burst open due to a capacity being breached.
Like show and tell, I explain that it’s content has never been discovered in any other human. I look in their eyes and I tell them how they make me feel, unafraid of their answer.
I see their interest so I push buttons and slam pots and pans in their head and turn the strobe light on in their heart just to make it clear that maybe they’re not ready for the disaster of devotion I entail.
I give them the insight of my aura by stating that I am a too-much-woman and I recount how many left due to such. I display my unapologetically exhausted soul’s passion—an intensity I’ve never received but refuse to alter despite of such.
I, without script, explain why every inch of my enthusiastic love is not temporary and welcomed to the home of my heart after too many years of wishing I could rid them of their visits. I reiterate the way I will only accept adoration and will never allow toleration.
I remind them I’ll never change, that I owe it to my persistent endurance and undying loyalty to ever silence who my me really is. I remind them what a loyal love looks like.
Then I wait for the one that reads my warning label as if it’s the finest piece of literature he’s ever laid eyes on. I wait for the one man enough to stay.