I would take a bullet for you. I would never leave you. I would die for you.

But mostly this just sounds like a movie line that’s easy to say because it will probably never be tested. Nobody’s handing you that choice on a random day.

What they end up giving you is something smaller and sometimes more shocking in the worst ways.

I’ll rather be pleased coming home late and I’ve been saved a plate. Or finding handwritten notes that tell me to enjoy my day.

In my case, I would make you tea and only in that mug you love so much. I would reach for your hands and leave soft light kisses for no reason. I would get you the book you mentioned loving, and write a text on the front page.

I would curate a playlist out of nothing but accidents: the song that was playing the day we met, a song you hummed without noticing, a song that just sounds like you. We would play it on long cold nights while in bed, reminiscing about all the times we stuck by each other.

I would be proud of you for the unglamorous victories like you ticking off everything on your to-do list, getting recommended for a role you love, the shower you took on a day that took everything out of you. Nobody throws a parade for that. But I would.

I would talk and defend you in rooms you haven’t even set foot in. I would show up at an inconvenient hour because you sounded off in a text and didn’t say why. I would stay on the phone doing nothing, saying nothing, just being a voice in the room until the room feels less empty.

So no, I won’t promise to die for you. I would rather love you in every way that matters, just because you’re the reason I keep choosing to.

Underwater, you can’t run. You can’t storm out of a room that has no doors. You have to stay, floating in the same current as the person you love, until the two of you figure out how to move together in the same direction rather than away from one another.

That closeness can be frightening because it’s the kind where escape isn’t an option, only depth. And that’s exactly why it matters. Love that lets you leave easily was never asking very much of you in the first place.

And I don’t mean drowning. It’s more like diving, it’s a choice, made again and again, to go somewhere more beautiful than common ground. To trust that another person’s arms are enough to keep you oriented when up and down stop making sense.

Love me like we’re underwater says, don’t love me at a comfortable distance. Love me like pressure, like current, like two people who have gone somewhere deep enough that the rest of the world can’t follow.

That deep, there is no such thing as loving from a distance. The water doesn’t stop at your skin. It moves through you, changes the way you hear, the way you see, the way your body remembers to be a body at all.

Let it be disorienting. Let it be a little too much. Let it ask more of you than others would ever understand.

Because on the surface, love is a decision you can revisit every day, and often unlearn. But underwater, there’s only one way to keep loving someone, hold your breath, hold onto them, and go deeper anyway.

Song: Runnin’- Naughty Boy ft Beyonce

(It’s better to listen to the song while you read the piece.. try it)

⚠️ CONTENT WARNING — 18+ ONLY

This piece contains explicit sexual content, strong adult language, and intimate sexual themes. It is intended for an adult audience only.

If you are under 18, please do not continue.

Everyone else: you’ve been warned.

She loves it when I call her a “good girl”

How do I know?

She bites her lip right after she rolls her eyes.

That flush of red, lines her cheeks, and light returns to her eyes.

She puts up an attitude all day just to get teased and probably spanked before the day is over.

She doesn’t know it takes so little to fall at her knees.

She thinks she’s at my mercy but the whole time I’m at hers.

Her face is its own perfection with lips that could kiss my sorrows away.

She gets on top of me ready to devour the façade i call tough.

Her wetness grazes my abdomen right before she places her lips on mine.

“You’re so wet, I whisper”

“Always, for you” she says

I fall, unable to resist.

I breathe in her scent, every whiff I take in seems to revive my quiet heart.

She wants me and so do I.

We always do.

I trace every curve of her, my fingers burning with an intensity that heat itself couldn’t explain.

And as usual, I tease her repeatedly before I take control.

Edging her as a form of payback for giving an attitude all day.

She does this…I’m used to it.

She edges me all day, just to build a more intense scenario before we fuck our brains out.

I don’t complain. I would never.

This time, she gets on the bed, teases me by taking off her clothes slowly.

When she’s done, she parts her legs slightly.

We both can’t resist.

Right then, I take her in my mouth, and a moan escapes her.

I come up for a kiss and she holds on to me for support.

She palms my face, kissing me intensely and even bites my lips a bit.

My face are back in between her thighs and I take her in my mouth.

I begin with slow, deliberate strokes of my tongue, circling, teasing, until her hips lift off the bed and her fingers tighten in my hair.

“Good girl,” I murmur against her, the words vibrating right on her clit.

She bites her lip again, harder this time and rolls her eyes.

I can feel the hold she has on me tighten.

I’m gone, my body responds to her in the best ways.

I’m so in love with her and even more obsessed with her body.

Her eyes lock on mine—wanting, already half-ruined. But she keeps muttering “Don’t stop.”

I’m moving my tongue faster now, delivering wider strokes.

Watching the attitude she wore all day melt into pure, gripping need, I smiled. Her legs started to quake but then I slowed my pace, just enough to make her whimper, just enough to remind her who’s deciding when she gets to fall apart.

I lean forward, kissing up her body, dragging my mouth over each spot till my mouth found her breast.

Took one nipple into my mouth while I played with the other, biting, teasing her softly, before moving my fingers down to caress the plane of her belly.

I grazed her skin and each time she shuddered with pleasure.

Her scent clings to me. Her wetness still on my lips when I kiss her. She tastes herself on my tongue and moans into it, greedy, pulling me closer.

She slides her tongue repeatedly into my mouth, filling me, kissing me, licking herself off my lips again.

She chokes me now and I moan into her mouth.

The soft pressure at my throat only sharpens everything, the taste of her, the way her thighs tremble against my legs and the wetness in my pants.

I settle my fingers between her thighs, and she rocks up, trying to take me in, her hips pulling me in while I watch her face as my fingers go in slowly, until I’m deep and she’s clenching around my fingers like she never wants to let go.

“Look at you,” I breathe against her mouth. “All day you teased me, and now you’re so wet for me..”

She answers with a broken sound, nails digging into my back.

My fingers began to move in and out, with controlled strokes that felt like it dragged every nerve in both of us.

Then I snapped. Consumed by pleasure I began hitting harder with precise strokes and she cried out in pleasure.

Every time I took my fingers almost all the way out she chased me, holding me in with her walls.

I kept the rhythm steady until she was trembling, mumbling words I couldn’t hear. My pace quickened as I watched her juices begin to flood my hands.

She’s so wet.

I continued fucking her with my fingers while the other teased her clit and then at that moment I felt her pulse race under my palm.

She continues moaning, eyes half closed but she doesn’t look away.

“You’re taking me in like a good girl”

“You’re my good girl”

“All yours, please don’t stop”. She says.

She’s close, I can feel it in the way she tightens her grip, in the moans. I lean down, lips brushing her ear.

“Come for me, baby.”

And she does.

arching, crying out, pulsing around me so hard it pulls the last of my restraint with it.

I feel her spill all over my fingers but I don’t take them out.

She lies down and I follow.

weakened from the climax.

We stay like that for a long moment, breathing the same air, hearts slamming against each other. When I finally ease out she makes that soft sound that ruins me. I kiss the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, then the flushed skin of her throat and pull her in.

“Still think you’re the one in control?” I ask breathless.

She smiles against my lips lazy, satisfied.

“Keep telling yourself that,” she whispers.

And just like that, I’m already hers all over again.

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Play the song before reading this, for maximum enjoyment.

This article is a mature content and contains explicit sexual themes. It is written for adult readers only. If that isn’t what you’re looking for, feel free to stop here. For everyone else, I hope you enjoy it.

Yeah, I know you saw the title and wondered. Sex rains? Well, yeah. It does.

It’s that moment when we decide we’re going to fuck and no one’s going to run when the other is about to let go. I’m going to watch you, and you’re going to return the favor by deliberately pissing all over me. A slow, intentional act. Golden showers. Water sports, if you want the internet term.

It always starts with consent, the half-confession, half-provocation that usually comes after sex.

“I’ve thought about you squirting on me.”

Or the reverse. The sentence hangs there, ridiculous and electric. We laugh, because the alternative is to take it too seriously too soon.

The path to the actual release is never direct. The body opens more willingly when it’s already being touched. So we begin with what we know.

Fingers: I slide my hand between her legs while she’s still only half undressed and find her already slick. Two fingers rest on her clit and move in slow circles. She rocks against my hand. I can feel the extra tension in her lower belly, the full bladder making every stroke sharper. She wants to come.

“Don’t,” I tell her. “Hold it.”

I keep my fingers moving and take her breast in my mouth, sucking one nipple, then the other, until those low, out-of-breath sounds start. She’s close again. This time I let her tip over the edge just enough to spill her juices everywhere… some nights, on the bed, on my face, sometimes in my mouth. When she thinks we’re done, I settle between her thighs and lick her with long, flat strokes over her clit, then the point of my tongue circling, then gentle suction while two fingers stay buried deep. Her hips lift. Her hands find my hair.

We both feel it when the need to piss starts competing with the need to come.

Sometimes I add just enough pressure at her throat—not too much, just enough to bring her to an intense climax. She swears under her breath, moans my name, laughs at the same time. I keep her right there on the edge until she’s shaking.

Toys change the pace. A vibrator held just above her clit while my fingers move inside her pushes the sensation further than either of us can manage alone. Or a curved toy left deep inside her while the pressure builds around it. She rocks against it while my mouth and hands keep working. Sometimes I turn the toy off right when she’s about to tip over, leaving her aching and frustrated, grabbing at my fingers, begging.

When I finally let her go, the release is almost violent. The warmth hits my chest and my mouth and spreads leaving us hotter than expected. It smells faintly like the wine we drank and something purely her. I leave my mouth open for some of it. I let the rest run down my body. While she keeps her eyes fixed on me the entire time.

In bed it feels riskier, more charged. Most nights we remember the towel. Other nights we forget, or decide not to care.

There are nights we both go at the same time, sitting across from each other with toys, working ourselves until we squirt all over each other. By the end we’re both exhausted, laughing, both a little stunned.

“I can’t believe we did this.”

“You look so sexy.”

“Fuck, the bed is so wet.”

“You did this.”

The laughter is part of it. It keeps the whole thing from turning solemn.

Afterward comes the practical reckoning. Sheets stripped. Towels in the wash. The shower turned on warmer than usual. We stand under it together, washing each other with the same hands that were just involved in something far less respectable. Soap over skin that still carries a familiar scent. We don’t speak much. The silence is comfortable.

Back in bed, clean and tired, we find each other again—mouths, hands, the slow slide of one body against another. Sometimes it has the opposite effect and we end up fucking again, slower this time, the memory still present in the room. When we finally stop, one of us reaches for the phone and discovers hours have passed. We never plan for it to take that long. It simply does.

On the nights when the ordinary boundaries of the body feel too small, we use fingers, mouth, the steady press of a toy, or all three until the pressure becomes unbearable. And for a few long seconds the only thing in the room is heat, and trust, and the soft, unmistakable sound of one woman giving herself to another in the most literal way she can.

That feeling is golden.

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You know the way some people release their work only when it’s undeniable? Not when it’s ready but when it’s ready to change things.

It’s the understanding that power doesn’t live in constant availability, but in exquisite timing. The world has to miss you. And more importantly, the moment has to be ready for you.

We live in a world of immediacy, where every thought gets tweeted, every feeling gets posted, every idea gets harnessed at its earliest, rawest form. Everyone’s moving at a rate that doesn’t wait for anyone.

We’ve confused speed with relevance and volume with importance.

But that’s where marinating comes in.

Marinating is not procrastination.

Procrastination is running from the thing. Marinating is sitting with the thing, letting it soak into your thoughts, trusting that time is an ingredient, and not a thief.

Think about actual marinating. You don’t rush. You place your meat in a bowl of flavor and you let time do its work. The flavors don’t transfer through force or speed but through patience.

Marinating asks us to let our ideas, our work, our selves, our relationships soak in the complexity of living. To resist the urge to present the half-baked version just because it’s ready-ish.

But most people don’t know that marinating can become a hiding place.

You can marinate something for so long that you’re no longer developing it but protecting it from judgment. You can call it “gathering depth” when really you’re afraid. The line between discernment and fear is so thin it gets lost.

Marinating requires something harder than faith. It requires honesty about your own motivations.

Some things need time, and some things need urgency.

A relationship that’s stalling probably needs you to speak the hard thing, not wait for the perfect words. An idea that’s half-formed might need to be released into the world to find its shape through feedback, not locked away until it’s “perfect.” A career move made at the right moment, even imperfectly executed, beats the flawless decision that arrives too late.

The discernment is learned. It comes from failure, from watching what happens when you rush things that needed time and when you wait on things that needed urgency. It comes from understanding yourself deeply enough to tell the difference between these three:

• Marinating: “This needs me to change before it’s ready.”

• Waiting: “This needs the world to change before it’s ready.”

• Procrastinating: “I need to change before I’m ready.”

The third one is the trap. It’s the one that whispers, “You’re not polished enough yet. Let it sit longer.” But you’re the one left sitting and waiting, not your great ideas.

The hardest part of marinating is that it feels like nothing is happening. You put the thing in the bowl and you wait. No progress bar. No visible momentum. Most of us skip this step.

But invisible work is where most growth happens. Raw experience becomes wisdom. You begin to feel a subtle shift in understanding, a deepening of perspective, a moment when you realize you’ve changed without pinpointing exactly when.

When you release something that’s been truly marinating not procrastinating, not waiting for permission, but genuinely developing, it lands differently. People can feel that you didn’t rush it. They can taste the depth. It’s the difference between a quick take and an insight.

It’s the work that makes other people slow down and marvel at the wonderful work you’ve done.

And in a world that monetizes your speed and your visibility, marinating is an act of quiet rebellion. It says that not every thought needs an audience immediately. The best version of you and what you love is worth waiting for.

But not everything deserves to marinate.

Some ideas need to put out and find their form through the world. Some relationships need the messy conversations and the arguments to understand how to work through the storms.

Some career moments have expiration dates.

The rebellion isn’t just about slowing down. It’s about choosing intentionally when to slow and when to move.

So take your time with the things that demand it. Let your ideas soak in their own complexity. Resist the urge to publish the half-thought, to send the unfinished message, to release the thought that’s still becoming.

But also notice when the waiting has stopped serving you. Know that sometimes transformation requires you to move before you feel ready.

Hold your ideas and decisions close. Let it gather depth.

But also know when to let it go when it’s not in your best interests.

That understanding is what changes everything.

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Every day I think I have it all figured out. I really do.

I wake up one Tuesday convinced that today’s the day everything would fall into place. The job application emails would reply themselves, the money would sort itself out, and somehow by sheer force of good vibes my life would begin resembling the vision board I made in January.

Maybe it’s an Aries thing.

Throwing caution to the wind and thinking more after the deed has been done.

No one knows.

But it’s been a while and none of the issues have been sorted yet.

What happened instead was that I quit my job, haven’t gotten any new offers, money in my account keeps depreciating but I still feel weirdly hopeful about tomorrow.

That’s the thing about optimism.

It just convinces you that the version of you who has everything together is only a few good decisions away. It tells you “tomorrow is a fresh start” so convincingly that you actually believe it.

“Do what you want to do“ everything will fall into place eventually.

I have been falling for this consistently and without shame, for years. The worst part? It doesn’t even feel like self-deception but self-belief. And those two things look identical from the inside until reality shows up and starts asking uncomfortable questions.

Catfishing is when someone builds a version of themselves that is polished, promising, and completely detached from the truth just to get you emotionally invested before the real picture surfaces. My optimism does this with the utmost precision and urgency. It shows me an overview of who I could be: structured mornings, clear goals, hefty bank account, a person who actually follows through on things they say they’ll do. It makes that version feel so close and achievable, so I go to bed feeling like I’ve already done the work. Then I wake up in the middle of the night to realize the situation wasn’t over then I cry till the sun comes out.

The vision had a six-pack. My reality has an anxiety disorder.

The vision had savings. I don’t need to finish that sentence, you already know.

And yet I choose to remain optimistic.

Every time. Without hesitation.

Why panic about the situation when you genuinely believe it will resolve? Why push harder when you’re convinced the breakthrough is coming?

It can make delay feel like strategy. And because optimism feels good genuinely, it’s hard to question it.

Questioning your optimism feels like choosing to be negative.

Like giving up. So you don’t question it.

Optimism, even the delusional, over-promising kind, is still the reason I try again.

It’s the reason the story doesn’t end at the failure. A person who genuinely believes tomorrow can be better will show up for tomorrow. And showing up even confused, even behind, is still the only way anything ever gets built. The people who stopped being optimistic didn’t suddenly become more productive. They just stopped starting things.

I haven’t let go of my optimism, I just don’t let it do the budgeting, the scheduling, or the part where it tells me I can realistically finish everything in one evening if I just focus.

I keep believing in a version of myself I haven’t fully met yet. I keep extending credit to a future me who hasn’t proven they deserve it. I keep waking up and trying again based almost entirely on vibes and the stubborn refusal to accept that yesterday was the best I’ve got.

My optimism has lied to me. repeatedly.

But it’s also the only reason I’m still here.

So I do be getting catfished by my own optimism.

But I’ll probably still fall for it again tomorrow.

Song: Vienna by Billy Joel

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I know this may sound sad but there’s a part of me that still flinches at random calls or texts from people asking to hang out and also to get to know me.

I let you in and then what’s next?

You hurt me and then move on like nothing happened right?

And I’m left to pick up what’s left of my fragile heart again?

Thanks but I’ll pass.

Trust me it isn’t because I don’t want to meet or explore new people but because I’ve learned the hard way, that even the sweetest openings often write the saddest endings and that scares me.

That’s my why.

I also know I talk about this a lot.

But it can never be over emphasized.

I don’t want half baked or temporary connections.

No one does.

For a long time, I believed if I loved loud enough, i could turn the wrong person into the right one. The spoiler though was, love was never the renovation tool I thought it was. You cannot fully decorate a house that was never built for you to stay in.

I keep saying I’m tired, and I am, and it’s not the kind of tired sleep fixes.

It’s the kind that makes you overthink when something good happens because you’re waiting for something bad to follow.

And these thoughts are pretty much valid because I’ve been blocked by people that promised to never leave my side and ghosted by people who used to know my favorite color.

I’ve been replaced so easily by people who used to call me irreplaceable and that has made me stop trusting good things could happen after these countless introductions.

That’s my why.

To be honest, heartbreak doesn’t ruin you. It’s the repetition that does. One bad love, you survive.

You write sad poems, you delete the photos, you grow from it like they promised in self-help books you read. But heartbreak on a loop? That rewires something in you. It teaches your nervous system to expect disasters. And after a while, you don’t even need someone to hurt you anymore you do it yourself, just to beat them to it.

You stop showing up as yourself each time and get obsessed with the idea of being chosen.

You give them the version of you that’s easy expecting a positive outcome, except the wrong people don’t want easier. They want available. And there’s a brutal difference between being loved and being convenient.

And each time you’re right back to where you started.

Now I flinch at softness. I question the people who are kind to me without an agenda, because the people who hurt me were never strangers they were the ones who knew exactly where I was soft, and hurt me there anyway.

No one prepares you for that cruelty, getting hurt from people you love?

You never see it coming and even if you did, you would never believe.

And that’s the saddest part.

I read red flags every time but still ignored every single one of them because the chemistry felt like proof of something.

But chemistry lies and is so bad at deciphering.

Chemistry never paid attention to the way I cried to sleep each time I remembered the pain of loving them that much.

Chemistry feels like fireworks, but remember fireworks are, by design, things that burn out and leave smoke behind..

I’ve survived getting hurt repeatedly, against my own expectations. Now surviving feels exhausting and it’s own kind of loneliness. I’ve patched myself up so many times I’ve become good at it, but being good at it is not the same as being okay.

I’m not scared of getting hurt again.

I’m more scared of becoming someone who can’t be loved gently anymore. Someone who mistakes peace for boredom because chaos is the only language I’ve ever spoken.

Someone who needs the push and pull to feel like something is real. I don’t want that. I don’t want to need the ache to know it’s real.

And I also don’t want easy and healthy love to feel suspicious.

You might wonder why I overthink a “hey” text. Why I brace before I believe. Why I’ve built a guard so good it sometimes locks out people who never meant any harm. It’s not because I don’t want love. It’s because I’ve wanted it badly, so many times, with people who never deserved the version of me that showed up anyway.

I kept showing up whole for people who were only ever passing through.

And still, somewhere underneath all of this, I haven’t stopped wanting it. The real kind.

That’s my why.

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That’s our routine.

We’ve done it countless times at this point I’m a pro.

And I would do it over and over again.

Immediately. Without hesitation.

With a smile on my face and love in my heart and absolutely zero dignity left to my name.

Loving a woman.

Nurturing and caring for her.

Touching her so good she isn’t ashamed when it comes to expelling bodily fluids readily.

There’s trust, cause she knows I wont judge but relish in every moment.

The way she smells, the intense joy of her laugh landing on my ears.

The result, being her climax on the sheets.

This woman, so beautiful, she would rearrange my entire nervous system and then have me looking for spare bedding in the dark.

But here I am.

While she’s ruined in the best possible way; boneless, lying there like a Renaissance painting. She looks lit from inside, glowing, completely satisfied and completely aware of it.

She stretches and makes a small sound and my already mushy legs quiver.

And each time I have to physically remind myself that I am supposed to be changing the sheets right now and not just staring at her like we’re about to get ruined one more time.

I strip the bed, and clean up with the practiced calm of someone who has accepted their fate and found it beautiful. I do not complain. I do not make a single comment about the state of things.

If only she knows how insane I am about her, and how this small act of cleaning up her beautiful chaos feels like something close to a privilege. Like I’ve been trusted with something precious. Like she made this mess with me and now I get to take care of it, which means I get to take care of her, which is all I ever want to do anyway so really she’s the one doing me a favour.

I finish the bed, while she looks at me from across the room.

Observing me, watching me with those eyes.

She drifts into the bathroom, all warm and wet, walking with that gait that belongs only to women who have just been thoroughly loved.

I hear the shower and I follow.

And here is where I lose the plot entirely.

Because she is standing there under the water and she turns to look at me and something about the steam and the low light and the way she’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room, which I am, but still, it does something irreversible to my chest.

We kiss. Slow and stupid and long, the kind of kiss with no urgency because we have nowhere else to be.

Her hands grab my hair. The water is warm. And I am completely and catastrophically down bad for this woman and it hits me fresh, right here, like it always does, like it’s the first time every time.

We get out eventually. Hunger. The sacred post-sex appetite that turns simple food into the best meal of your life. We eat together in the quiet, her leg thrown over mine, talking about nothing, laughing about something small, her mouth doing that thing it does when she’s happy and relaxed and fully herself. I watch her more than I eat.

Then we get into bed, clean sheets, the one I sorted out while she was glowing across the room and she tucks herself into me like she was always supposed to be there.

You feel the balance right?

I feel it too.

Like I was built specifically to be the shape she fits into. Maybe I was. I wouldn’t rule it out.

But this is our space. Our routine. Our world.

Ours.

She makes a mess. I clean up.

She laughs and I stare.

We shower and eat and hold each other until we can’t tell where the night ends.

Balance.

And honestly, I would change these sheets every night for the rest of my life and call it luck.

Because this is how I feel every day with her.

Lucky.

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song choice- her body is bible by Fletcher

I have been told “sorry” mid-thrust more times than I have been told after any argument or conversation.

And trust that I do worse. I’m no better.

And even though the wuhluhwuh’s are, broadly, a community that shies away from accountability, sometimes we process and accept.

Picture the moment two women are naked and one of them has fingers or tongue somewhere they have been explicitly, enthusiastically invited, and then the room begins to echo with sorry’s?

“sorry, is this okay?”

“sorry, my hand’s cold.”

“I’m sorry, I hope I’m not too aggressive?”

“I think I’m overthinking this, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry, was that your hip bone?”

Sorry, I’m nervous.”

come on! ladies really?

I once slept with a woman who apologized for queefing with the urgency of someone who had run me over with their car but proceeded to squirt on my face and in my mouth.

If you apologized then, what are you going to do now?

Did I complain? Can’t you tell from my face that I’m loving this?

Does anything about my expression scream “no more?”

I reassured her it was fine, it happens, please continue, and then she apologized again, for apologizing too much about the first apology.

We were now three apologies deep into a sound her own body made completely against her will, a noise that is, biologically, just air letting me know I’m doing a good job and me maniacally loving it.

Mind you, at no point did either of us stop being turned on.

That’s the part people barely talk about though.

The apologizing and the activities go hand in hand.

Kinda like the “je ne sais quoi” of queer sex.

if you’ve gotten to this point, I don’t think the TMI is bothering you..please !

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Another time, mid-oral, she actually paused, eyes closed came up for air like she was about to pass out and proceeded to ask if I was “doing okay”.

Girl you can barely breathe and you’re asking about me? aww

What do you think we’re here for?

Emotional check ins?

please proceed I feel great.

We’re two consenting adults, doing the exact thing we both said yes to, and somehow one of us is still issuing apologies.

Don’t get me wrong, I don’t actually think this is bad. I think it might be the single most quietly radical thing about queer sex.. that the first instinct is to check, to soften, to make room for someone else’s experience, instead of silent, confident, slightly hostile choreography I’m told happens with the other….uhm..

well moving on…

But also. Also! We are allowed to enjoy ourselves without narrating our own potential wrongdoings in real time, mid-act. You do not need to apologize for your squirt hitting my eyes, and no one’s going to file a case against how I nudged you accidentally in the face during sixty-nine.

I guess it all balls down to the way most of us were raised.

Taught to scan a room to ensure we’re doing the right things, and to confirm our pleasure isn’t an imposition on somebody else’s life. And then we bring that same radar straight into bed, where it has genuinely nothing useful to do, where the entire point is finally, for once, taking up exactly as much space as you want to satisfy every desire and hopefully making it to the headline of that friend group by 6am but in a good way.

So this is a formal request, posted publicly, to every woman I have slept with and every woman I will be lucky enough to sleep with going forward: There is no jury. The only crime you committed was probably making me run out of sheets to use this rainy season.

There is no performance review. You do not need to apologize for touching me the exact way I asked you to.

Just say “oops,” we laugh, and keep going. I promise you, I am only thinking about how good this feels for both of us. That’s it. That’s the whole goal.

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And I’m there again.

I walk through these empty rooms

They seem vaguely familiar

But I know I've never been

except in these dreams.

I keep searching but I don’t know what for.

I’m starting to feel scared

Shivers run down my spine

"It's all in my head" I say once again

now a daily mantra I chant to stay sane

I fear if I close my eyes I would melt away

And no one would remember me

or even my existence.

I have nothing to hold on to,

Except my pretense of being strong

I've never been strong

but believing has made me feel differently.

I've created this character to get rid of the real me

This one, so fragile and weak

Cause as I lay in bed

I'm back to being the quiet girl with these loud thoughts

One that had to wake her brother every night

just so she wouldn’t be awake alone in the dark.

I was the child that never went to bed first,

no matter how I tried.

Long after lights out,

all that was left,

was my restless and anxious heart.

I can still hear blood, pounding loudly in my ears

followed by the static

And each time,

I wondered when morning will come.

would I make it through the night without my heart bursting through?

I survived that night and every other night after that

So maybe it's all in my head

And I'm still that scared child

who faced her fears during the day

but cried and shivered in fear all through the night

only to repeat the cycle again,

only now with a more nerve wracked soul.

I feel sore,

it feels like my heart’s ripping at the corners,

longing to run away from this body,

this vessel that seems to know only hurt.

I want to write words that hit nerves,

until they end up like mine,

altered.

I want to mask the hunger,

the one that arrives angry,

leaving blisters

along the insides of my gums.

i want, so badly,

to feel a kind of relief,

one that doesn’t threaten

only softens.

the kind of happiness

that has no clenched fingers.

and promises to not run when i lose myself,

again.

Time passes and each time you become a witness to your own wreckage. You’re there for every beginning that looked like something, every ending that felt like proof of something else. The promises. The departures. The moment the door closes and you realize you saw it coming. Do this enough times, and you start keeping score, not to punish yourself, but because numbers make more sense than feelings.

You start to wonder: is this bad luck, or is this a pattern I keep walking into?

And because you are the one common thread running through every story, you start to wonder if the pattern is you.

Maybe it’s me, I think, somewhere around the third or fourth time. Maybe there’s a frequency I give off that only certain people can hear, and it says stay here, I will absorb whatever you bring me, even though it’s pain.

Maybe I mistake intensity for depth. Maybe I confuse being chosen with being safe. Maybe I’ve spent so long learning how to survive love that I never learned how to simply receive it.

I don’t say this to punish myself. I say it because I’m tired of the alternative, this version where I’m simply unlucky, again and again. I don’t want to be a woman who just keeps flipping the coin and getting the bad end.

Maybe it’s my fault for mistaking familiarity for chemistry, for feeling most at home with people who made me work the hardest to be loved, because working hard felt like proof it mattered. Maybe it’s my fault for staying past the first warning, the small thing I explained away because the rest of it felt so good. Maybe I picked people who needed fixing because fixing felt like a task I could control, in a life where so little else was controllable. Maybe my pattern isn’t bad taste. Maybe it’s an old instinct that says love has to be earned through endurance.

So maybe it’s my fault, the parts I can actually reach. The warning signs I can promise myself I won’t argue with next time.

Or maybe none of it is, and I am only doing what humans do after loss, hunting for a better answer, because a world where I had no control is harder to bear than a world where I simply made the wrong decisions.

I don’t know yet which is true. Maybe both are, in different rooms of the same house.

But I’m no longer interested in a story where I am either entirely blameless or entirely to blame. I want the true one, the one where I can look at my own hands in the wreckage and still remember that other hands were there too, and are still answerable for whatever damage they caused.

song-Blame the moon by Hazlett

What is fear, if not choosing to hold my hands when I’ve long held on to yours?

I can’t get rid of you.
The taste of your skin that, once swallowed, lingers on my tongue long after you’ve gone.

It feels like a ritual.
This back and forth, thoughts tied to our past that are now a distant memory.
At the back of my mind you’re alive.
I open that archive always.

I worship you, right there on the altar we built every other night.
I savor these images in my head:
the moment my spine bends as I lower myself to you,
and what spills from you I take in fully with my mouth.
A mouthful.

I whisper, “my love”
but the words feel too small for what’s between us.

You surrender, and every time I find myself on my knees.
I soften without trying.
There is no performance left once we’re rid of clothes.
You love me with an impossible patience,
while my confessions arrive all at once.

Tonight, you may be the only thing capable of unmaking me.

Warm bodies. Tangled sheets.
A heart stubborn enough to believe in the future of us.

Most parts of me have not yet found their way out of you.
My sacred wound.

I belong to you as completely as you belong to me.
Possession has never been about ownership.
It is this quiet act of feeling more of someone than they ever meant to leave behind.

I feed on you because I carry the hunger of every woman who came before me.

women who loved like this and were never given the words for it.

Don’t be scared, for, you too, will be consumed.

Not erased.

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What I would do to feel your hands on parts of me.

just because you feel and not just touch.

you caress my cheeks in the softest ways,

and other parts at a harder pace,

but in the right ways.

you look at me,

Shyly most times

Other times determined.

I hear sounds and immediately think of you

And even in the silence, I see you

Then I imagine if things remind you of me this way

i dread being away from you

you heal me in ways unknown

you’re a part of me

And my only fear is carrying this much love for you

and you don’t get to experience it fully.

“It’s just loud music and sweaty strangers.” Sure. And the ocean is just water.

I want to tell you what happens to me on a dance floor in Lagos at 2am, because I don’t think I can ever emphasize it, and because I think more people need to hear it before they write the whole thing off as noise.

Everyone starts to arrive.

The room starts to get less empty.

Some people are half dressed but they seem very comfortable.

Others are fully clothed but with a motive of getting naked in a few hours.

But that’s want the music does to you.

You walk in and look around, taking in the scene, the lights, the people.

The music finds your chest before your ears even catch up. Your friends kiss your cheek cause they’ve missed you since the last rave (which was two days ago by the way)

You start dancing and someone you’ve never met grabs your shoulder because the drop just happened and they need a witness. You give them one. Neither of you says a word.

You don’t need to — “oh, it’s just dancing,” people say, like dancing hasn’t been how humans have processed grief or joy for centuries.

I started raving in Lagos almost by accident. I went back the next week. And the next. Not because the music got better. Because I did.

“It’s a phase, you’ll grow out of it.” I’m still waiting.

Nobody tells you how addictive raving is until you’re already in it.

It’s not actually only about the music. The music is the excuse. What I’m really there for is the room full of people who, for six or eight hours, have agreed to stop performing or pretending.

Nobody’s checking their phone for the next thing. There’s no next thing. There’s just strangers becoming family by sunrise.

I’ve had more real conversations at 4am on a dance floor than I’ve had at work, and even therapy. People say things at the edge of exhaustion they would never say sober.

Someone once told me, mid-dance, eyes half-closed, that this was the only place in Lagos she felt like herself. I knew exactly what she meant, because I felt the same way.

People be like; “I know life’s hard but maybe you need a hobby that isn’t ruining your sleep schedule.”

Respectfully, this is my hobby. The sleep is the sacrifice and my sweat is the sermon.

For a long time, raving was something you didn’t really talk about outside a group chat. It lived in the same category as a guilty pleasure, fun, sure, but not something you would disclose to everyone.

Now it’s a culture that’s fast growing.

People said “It’s just a trend, give it a year.” It’s been years. And it’s still here.

Raving gave me a body that could feel good without an agenda attached. No goal, just movement which in a city that runs on grind and hustle feels like the break that it is.

So yes, it’s an addiction, but the kind that heals more than it harms. I don’t crave the after-effects, I crave the during. The exact moment the whole room moves as one.

I’m not trying to convince anyone that raving is therapy with better lighting, though some days it genuinely feels that way. I’m trying to say something simpler: this thing that looks, from the outside, like noise and sweat and chaos, is actually one of the most honest spaces I’ve know. It’s where I’ve felt the most unbothered by everything waiting for me outside those doors.

When people ask why I keep going back, why I would choose a sweaty room full of strangers over literally anything else on a Saturday, I give the same reply: “You have to feel it to understand.”

And if you already feel it, you already know there’s no version of this story where you stop.

My house music playlist…enjoy💌

“I don’t want to know what you look like going.”

There is something fiercely protective in that sentence, and something a little cowardly too, and somehow both of those things are true at once, the way they so often are when love has asked more of us than we knew we had.

This isn’t about any one love story. It’s about a particular Wednesday. It’s about the way a hand felt different on your skin the last time, lighter, as if already practicing how to touch you less. It’s about realizing you have catalogued every other version of this person and the one image you cannot survive having is the one where they are deciding to stop choosing you.

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There’s a reason we say I don’t want to know instead of I’m afraid to know. Wanting implies a kind of control we don’t actually have. You can ask someone not to let you watch them leave, and they can promise, and the leaving will happen anyway, because departures rarely announce themselves with the decency of a closing scene. Most of the time there is no doorway. There is silence that stretches a day too long. A message read and not answered. The specific quiet of a phone that used to feel like a second heartbeat.

So what we’re really asking for isn’t blindness. It’s mercy. Let me keep the last good memory instead of the true one. Let the final image be them in your tee smiling at you before they walk into the bathroom or their cheeks flat on the counter in the kitchen singing something off-key and wrong on purpose, instead of them packing a bag while you pretend to be asleep or them storming out while no words were uttered.

We realize that seeing them leave in real time hurts so much that we plea for them to stay in our lives long enough to be unforgettable, rather than turn their backs on us on a random day. Let the goodbye be a rumor I never confirm.

Maybe that isn’t a fair thing to ask of anyone but I don’t think it’s fair on the one being left behind either.

If they ever do go, I hope I am somewhere else when it happens. I hope I find out the way you find out a season has changed, not by watching the leaves fall, but by noticing one morning that the air is different.

I only want to remember what you looked like staying.

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song—Lions, Tigers and Bears by James Sullivan

There’s a version of this where I apologize for the easy things. For being late, for forgetting your favorite order, for the small failures that come standard with being a person someone else has decided to love. That version would be shorter. Kinder, maybe. But it wouldn’t be honest, and if I’m going to write this at all, I want it to be true.

I’m sorry I made you love me. Not because loving me was the mistake. Because I knew, somewhere underneath the parts of me that wanted to be wanted, that I was going to be hard to love well. I have a gift for becoming exactly what a woman is looking for, and a worse gift for never wanting to leave, regardless of how hard that becoming gets.

I didn’t lie to you. I never told you a single thing that wasn’t true. I told you the truest things in the order that would make you stay.

I was going to consume you slowly, and bury my devotion so deep in you that you’d mistake it for your own idea.

I knew you never wanted it to go this way.

You wanted easier. Temporary. Lower stakes than a woman who loves like she’s never going to be asked to stop.

I led with the parts of me that read like poetry, and buried the warning label underneath: she’s going to love you so hard you won’t be able to leave.

You have a type. I know that now. I think I knew it the second we talked, when you told me about the others, not their names, just their features.

The ones who made you feel like the only interesting woman in the room, and then, just as fast, like the only thing standing between them and whoever was next.

You told me this casually but it felt like a confession. Like you were warning me about yourself before I could get attached. And I remember thinking not in your words, but somewhere underneath that “that’s going to be me in a few weeks cause you’re going to ruin me, and I’m going to let you.”

I’m sorry if I made myself your type. Not for who I am. For how easily I could see what you wanted, and let myself become it, but because i rather have some of you than none of you.

There’s a kind of love that’s really just two people recognizing their own wounds in each other and calling it chemistry. That was us, some days. You loved the way I stayed in rooms even when no one asked me to stay. I loved the way you kept reaching for me anyway, like maybe I was the one exception to a rule you would otherwise have to learn the hard way, over and over, than with someone else.

We mistook the reaching, the leaving, the reaching again for something rare. It wasn’t rare. It was just familiar. It only took this long to see it for what it was.

I used to think the cruelest thing a person could do was lie about loving you. I don’t think that anymore. I think the cruelest thing is to love someone accurately, to see exactly what she needed and become it, knowing the whole time that you’re only renting the space. You don’t lie. You just don’t mention that the lease has an end date. And when it ends, the other person doesn’t feel deceived, exactly. She feels something stranger: like the version of her that was being loved was a stranger, too. Like even her happiness was borrowed.

You gave me that. And I know you’re not proud of it. I’m not entirely ashamed of it either, because some of it was real; the laughter that came too easy, the way you said my name like it was a small kindness you were doing yourself. But underneath the real things, there was a thought I didn’t fight hard enough against. Words that said: “be what she needs, be it perfectly, and worry about whether you can sustain it some other day.” I never got around to that other day. I made sure of it, by never admitting that’s what I was doing.

People will tell you that you can’t make someone love you. That’s true the way most comforting things are. Technically, and not at all where it counts. You can’t force it. But you can build a door exactly like the one a woman’s been standing in front of her whole life, and you can stand in that doorway, and watch her walk through it like it was always meant for her. Is that chemistry or design?

I designed myself for you. I don’t say that to flatter either of us. I say it because you deserve to know that the version of me you fell for wasn’t an accident and that matters, because it means the falling wasn’t your failure of judgment. You didn’t choose badly. You chose exactly what was offered. And what was offered was built to love you forever, even though forever was never what you said you wanted.

So when I say I’m sorry I made you love me, I mean: I’m sorry I was good at this. I’m sorry that the thing I’m best at — reading a woman, becoming legible to her, turning myself into a mirror that flatters — is the exact thing that ends up hurting her most.

You weren’t wrong to fall for that version of me. Maybe the other version, the truer one, would have made you fall too. The mistake was the two of us, falling for each other while fully, clearly that neither of us was what the other one needed. I took on a form telling you constantly I was doing it for us. Just because I needed one more week of you.

Here’s what I won’t do: I won’t tell you that you’ll find someone better suited, someone who won’t perform for you, who’ll show up and never need to stay, who’ll love you the plain, unglamorous, daylight way you actually want. Not because it isn’t true. It probably is. But that kind of line is its own kind of performance, and here I am, still trying to be the best version of myself even inside an apology. I’m tired of being good at that.

So I’ll just say this instead: I made myself into someone you fell for, and I’m not sure I know how to undo that, and I’m not sure it’s mine to undo.

I hate that I made you love me. Not because loving me was hard for you. Because I did it knowing, the whole time, that you weren’t going to stay and some part of me thought I could love you hard enough to change that anyway.

I’m sorry if I made myself your type.

I’m sorrier that I knew how.

It’s never peaceful.

A girl listening for her own heartbeat, terrified of what she’ll find beneath it.

This is where the story begins.

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And love will die when it begs to be fed.

The line sounds poetic.

words shaped the way a eulogy sounds, tender but underneath it is something closer to a warning carved into the bark of a tree.

It says: love is not a thing that survives on demand. It cannot be summoned by asking, proven by pleading, kept warm by the sheer force of wanting it to stay. The moment it turns from an offering into a request, the moment a woman starts to beg the woman she loves to simply keep loving her…something in it has already begun to die.

We do not beg for what we don’t love. We beg because the thought of losing them feels like losing the only language we ever spoke fluently.

This is not an easy thing to sit with. Almost everyone who has loved has, at some point, begged quietly, loudly, solemnly with their whole chest, in the dark, in front of a bathroom mirror, in a text message typed and deleted four times before being sent. We have waited by phones. We have memorized the cadence of their voice for the exact half-second where warmth might be cooling into distance. We have searched their face hungry for any sign that the shape we love is still coming toward us and not turning away.

And so to say that begging kills love, it can feel cruel like blaming the thirsty for their thirst. It’s a kind of grief, spoken plainly. It is not condemning the woman who begs. It is describing what happens to love itself when it is forced, again and again, into that scene, with no one answering back the way it needs to be answered.

Love and need wear the same face but they are not the same animal.

Need is a closed loop — fill me, or I will not survive the night and it does not really see the woman in front of it, only the shape of what she might give. Love, in its truer form, is a loop left open — I want to give you something, and I want something back, but I will not come apart at the seams if tonight you have nothing left to give me.

It can rest in the quiet. It does not require an echo to know it is real.

But there is a point, a place where the pain stops being one thread in a braid but becomes an entire rope, and when that happens, love stops giving and starts pleading. It starts to ask in that small, devastating voice so many of us know by heart — are you mad at me, are you pulling away, did I do something, do you still — sent twice, then again an hour later, softened the second time so it doesn’t look like panic even though it is exactly that.

None of this is a sin. It is a girl trying to find solid ground on a floor that no longer feels like it will hold her.

The cruel part? the more she asks, the less any answer satisfies her. If she asks do you love me and she gets told yes, the yes will warm her for an hour, maybe a day, and then the old fear creeps back in on its feral feet, because the fear was never really about that one moment of reassurance. It was about whether love, this particular, specific, irreplaceable love, could be trusted to stay without being chased down and pinned to the page. No answer can permanently cure a fear that old, because the fear isn’t listening for an answer. It’s listening for a guarantee. And love was never built to hand out guarantees. It was built to offer presence, which is smaller, more fragile, more human, and far less satisfying to a heart that has already been left before.

She is lying in someone’s arms and still feels like she is shouting across a canyon. That is the loneliest kind of love there is, starving at a table someone else has already set for you.

This is the part that aches the longest: a love that begs is so often a love that is desperately lonely while still being held. You can have her beside you every night, her hand finding yours under the blanket without even looking, her breath slow and certain against your neck, and still lie awake composing the speech that will finally make her understand how much you need her not to leave. This is one of the strange cruelties of loving with your whole undefended self: the people we love most are often the people whose leaving would undo us most completely, which means they are also the people in front of whom we are most likely to fall apart asking to be chosen, over and over, like the first time wasn’t enough.

The loneliness of begging is sharper than the loneliness of having no one, because it happens in the presence of the very thing you’re starving for. It is standing in front of the one woman who has ever truly seen you and still feeling unseen, because what you’re really asking for, permanent, undoubtable safety was never something a single human being could hand you, no matter how much love you got, no matter how many times you were told in return.

It would be easy, and wrong, to call this neediness, as if the fix were to scold ourselves into self-sufficiency. The truth is softer and sadder than that. We learn to beg because somewhere, long before her, we learned that love could be conditional, or fickle, or gone without warning just like a mother’s affection that came and went like weather, a girl before this one who left, a childhood spent figuring out exactly how good you had to be to be kept. The body doesn’t know the difference between this woman might leave and love itself is unreliable. It generalizes. It braces. And bracing, held long enough in the body, starts to look like begging, even when the woman in front of you has never once given you a real reason to be afraid.

Begging is grief wearing the costume of desire, it’s reaching for whoever is closest, hoping this time the ground will finally hold.

When love dies this way, it rarely happens with a slammed door. It happens the way drought kills an orchard…slowly, from root to branch, long before anyone notices the leaves have stopped coming back.

The first thing to disappear is spontaneity.

“I love you” begins to wait for permission.

Trust goes quieter.

No one notices the moment it leaves.

The I love you that used to rise up on its own, unprompted, in the middle of folding laundry or watching her laugh at something stupid, now only arriving because the silence after not saying it has become unbearable for both of you to sit inside.

If begging is love starving itself slowly, it’s worth asking what it looks like to actually be fed not by asking, but by simply being given to, the way moonlight falls on water without the water having to reach up for it. It looks like her quiet moods not feeling like a verdict on you. It looks like being able to disagree with her about something small and not spend the night recalculating whether you are still wanted. It looks like leaving the room literally, or for a weekend, or just retreating into your own head for an evening and trusting the bond will still be exactly where you left it when you come back, unguarded, unchanged, still warm.

This is not a smaller love than the begging kind. If anything it is freer to be enormous, because desire that isn’t shadowed by terror has so much more room to actually feel like joy instead of dread. It has simply stopped checking its own pulse every five minutes and learned, instead, to trust that the heart is beating whether or not it’s being watched.

And maybe that’s the deepest ache hidden inside all of this: it is so often the very intensity of how much we love a woman that becomes the thing endangering the love itself. We don’t beg for the things we don’t care about losing. We beg precisely because the stakes feel unbearable because losing her, this particular mouth, this particular laugh, this particular way she says your name like it’s something she’s still getting used to being allowed to say feels like losing something the rest of your life will not replace. The tragedy is that the desperation born of loving someone this much is the very thing that can wear that love thin, asking it to prove itself so many times that it forgets how to simply exist.

Love that begs has not failed. It is only frightened, reaching for the one thing no amount of reaching can secure: her choosing, freely, to stay.

There is no clean ending to offer here, no five-step way to turn hunger into ease overnight. But maybe there is a softer way to hold all of this, not as a verdict against any woman who has ever begged the one she loved to stay, but as a quiet permission to notice, gently, without shame, the exact moment love slipped from offering into pleading, and to meet that moment the way you’d meet a frightened girl in the dark: not by telling her to stop being afraid, but by staying anyway, long enough and steady enough that her hands finally unclench from the asking, and she remembers slowly, the way feeling comes back into a numb limb, what it is to simply be loved, without having had to beg for a single second of it.

Song- Sand drawing by Judah Earl

I live the way it flowed with this piece.

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While searching for her paprika, Ada had come across sparklers from last Christmas in the cupboard.

"You love to play babe" Chi said.

"It's just a sparkler."

"Even though."

It caught with a hiss, throwing sparks across the tiles, and the smell hit first— that sharp tang of scorched metal and burnt out matches, cutting clean through the smell of smoke grilled beef still drifting up from the seller across the street.

"Make a wish," Ada said, holding it up between them like a torch.

"On a sparkler? Ah, since when?"

"Since now. I just decided."

Chi laughed, as the light threw rays of gold across half her face.

Ada kept watching her instead of the flame, lost in her eyes.

"Fine," Chi said. "I wish—"

"Don't say it out loud, you'll jinx it."

"You literally just told me to make a wish."

"Inside your head. God! you ruin everything, who are you?" she laughed as she said it mockingly.

Chi rolled her eyes, smiling anyway, while the sparkler spat its way down the wire toward Ada’s fingers.

"Five seconds," Ada said. "Hurry and wish."

Chi closed her eyes. Smoke curled past her face. She opened them just as the flame reached the end and Ada dropped to one knee.

"Ada—"

"Wait — no — fuck! I dropped it—"

Ada was looking into the pot of freshly cooked sauce, not proposing, just hunting for something before the last of the light went out.

"What are you doing?"

"There was a — I had a—"

The sparkler gave one last violent spit and died.

Just the smell of smoke hanging soft between them.

"I dropped the ring in the sauce, bring the torch, please."

Chi stared at her without saying a word, without moving an inch.

Still shocked Ada was just about to propose to her and she would have definitely said yes.

She loved this woman with her whole heart.

"I love you," Ada said nervously, already digging through the sauce, "but please help me find the ring first."

A flower in the hands of a gorilla is stupid, they say.
As if that proves the flower was ever the problem.
It only proves that beauty can arrive
before its witness learns how to see.

I once gave my softness
to those who only understood sharp, toxic things.
They held my heart like something useless,
waiting for it to become something else.

What a terrible thing it is—
to be reduced to weight.
A poem in a room of hammers,
a match in a city of rain.

Some people inherit sunsets
and complain about the heat.
Some are kissed by miracles
and mistake them for ordinary days.

I hope I get to bloom again
where flowers are understood.
In the quiet of roses and lilies,
without having to explain my becoming.

So the soil recognizes my roots,
and the rain no longer feels like punishment.
So I stop calling survival
a form of living.

I hope I learn again
that softness is not a flaw.
That I am not a flower
asking a gorilla for belonging.

A flower in the hands of a gorilla
is not stupid. The gorilla is.

Author’s Note 🍀

The phrase “a flower in the hands of a gorilla is stupid”. It asks us to question the flower’s existence instead of the hands holding it.

While writing this poem, I kept thinking about how often tenderness, love, vulnerability, and even people are called foolish simply because they were offered to someone incapable of recognizing their value. We rarely question the recklessness of the recipient but question the giver and the gift.

This poem might just be a metaphor that speaks about flowers, but it’s about soft hearts given to hard people, art given to those who cannot understand it, and love offered where it cannot be understood.

I refuse to blame the flower for blooming. Instead, i ask a different question: what responsibility belongs to the hands that failed to see what they were holding?