I am wholly romantic.
I am wholly singular.
My heart converges with winter and suddenly my hands are incapable of forming a fist. This is what they warned me about; when you are too warm; when you are too open. I have filled the spaces inside of me with ice so bright it shines like crystals — like my chest is a cave where tourists fumble for their phones to capture it: beauty.
Beauty from rock.
Beauty from dark.
I have spent my whole life in this delicate balance. Straddling this strange fence — hoping for some wind. Hoping for something. For my body to let go of its contradictions, for my bones to know no polar opposites. My whole existence is the edge of a cliff: one side is hard, and the other is only air.
I make the men I love want to jump; want me to jump; want our hands tangled, plummeting — there is no catch — only the moment before the fall.