Some of us are hard to love. We doubt and push till your will is broken. We don’t intend to, but if we were our intentions, we’d be labeled “danger, do not love.” We crave that which shudders at our touch because that is what we know about love. But we are not hard to all forms of love. We open our hearts to the poetry of touch, haikus recited between thighs, the brave seek our centers.
The brave stay long enough to notice the myriad of women I have been. I was the woman that dreamed of being like roots. Not in the sense that they spread over large distances but in the sense that their heart was in one place. This version wanted to stay, I would stay in a burning house because that is where my heart was. The other version wanted to leave. There was a fire beneath my feet that made me incapable of staying in one place. I found love and celebrated it by planning my escape. But there is a version that wants nothing. Sometimes amidst all this fire, I sit and dream of nothing. There is no urge to flee or stay, merely to exist. None of these versions is easy to love but they are all worth it because above all, they will love you with ease.
My love is a baptism of fire, even I am not saved from it.