I’ve never hated you.
You’ve carried me through this dangerous world,
despite the assumptions, the shame, and the violence.
And yet the world decided you were nothing if not male,
but they never asked you, in all your clarity and wisdom.
They could never understand that you transcend their vision,
that you are far more than their assumptions and stereotypes.
Because you are the vessel that carries my soul home,
towards that luminous beacon on those distant shores.
You are my salvation.
What is romance?
What is this deeper connection
that we define as somehow separate
from platonic care and affection?
How do we draw the lines
between the romantic and the sexual
and how they affect our relationships?
Romantic attraction. . .
Sexual attraction. . .
Platonic attraction. . .
Aesthetic attraction. . .
Sensual attraction. . .
What are the differences?
What are the similarities?
Theoretically I know the answers,
but how do I navigate my own feelings?
Maybe I am not meant to understand
this abstract concept called romance,
and maybe there’s nothing wrong with that.
Maybe I am not broken after all.
Dim light shining through my bedroom window,
the glass covered in rain droplets and thick fog
obscuring the outside world in a sullen gloom.
As the droplets cascade through the dense haze
it reminds me of tears falling from despondent eyes,
of a smog that obscures all bliss and contentment.
And yet this overcast and dismal source of light
is all I have in the solitude of my own bedroom,
isolated in a sea of consuming darkness and sorrow.
My own bedroom is a prison cell with a barred window,
chained and unable to move from the warmth of my bed,
depression and anxiety are the wardens of my captivity.
coiling around me,
bursting from the earth
that is my own flesh.
A deep and hollow rumble,
the vibration in my chest,
that feels like an earthquake
rather than my own voice.
A tumultuous flood,
rushing water over barren soil,
intrusive thoughts and emotions
the deluge of my own uncertainty.
A prisoner in my own vessel,
exiled to these desolate lands,
a constant struggle to feel at home
in the caverns of my own soul.
This might all sound hopeless,
but our eyes tell a different story
of a limitless and expansive galaxy
that is our own to explore.
Complicated emotions wound tight like a noose around my neck.
The tense anxiety of existence that dominates every fiber of my being.
How else do I explain what it’s like to traverse this world as me?
Should I lie to you, the people I love most, and say it’s all going to be fine?
Or do I tell the truth and risk exposing myself to the chaos of your empathy?