more beginnings of things.

No one
has ever written me a love poem,

not until you,
and at first, you were writing it with fingertips on my face
and hands that wrote the length of my torso,
punctuating verses with caresses on my hips,
leaving exclamation points with your lips.

And you weren't alone-
I wrote you lines along each strand of your hair,
left couplets along your spine,
and tucked words away in your navel for you to discover later, like verbal lint.

And you don't know this
but you've written sonnets for the bruises on my shins,
and sometimes my brain starts to rip when I try to wrap it around all that you mean to me
because, no.
It's not simple.
and no.
I don't want it to be.

But we are.

Ironic that I should have posted about eggshell walking and not doing it anymore because it's dumb.

Past eggshell walking just came back to bite me in the ass. Big time.

I think I've hit my breaking point, finally. I'm finally sick of walking on eggshells around people in order not to hurt them. I'm going to take that part of my personality and divert it into caring for people, caring about people, but I can't pretend that problems don't exist anymore, and I have to be ready to take the risks to confront people about things that bother me or things that are getting in the way of a healthy relationship. I can't sacrifice my well being or my sanity for others, and when something is bothering me, I need to own up to it.

I'm going to get started on this.