Trigger me, 
I dare you. 
If you want to know me,
I’ll tell you everything you’ve never wanted to hear.
I’ll close my eyes 
ever so lightly,
part my lips
ever so slightly,
I’ll whisper softly in your ear
the most beautiful songs about your worst nightmares.
How easy it will be to undress you, 
button by button, 
caress you,
revealing the demons that feed and possess you. 

I remember darkness 
disturbed by the sun.
I was not awake,
I was not yet asleep, 
when I opened my eyes and saw what I’d done.
It wasn’t until I started to run 
that the blood on my hands
began to fade.
Not quickly enough 
to escape my thoughts,
not really as tough as I thought I was.
It turns out I don’t like the color red.

Life is hard.
The cost of existence 
never stops rising,
but it’s easier to blame it on me. 

Work demands
parts of your sanity 
packaged neatly in golden wrapping,
but it’s easier to blame it on me.

Time is fleeting
it refuses to take a beat
to provide you a moment to breathe,
but it’s easier to blame it on me.

Sleep is restless.
She fickles her way 
in and out of the night,
but it’s easier to blame it on me. 

Loving yourself is a battle.
One that acknowledges no winner,
only tallies body counts,
but it’s easier to blame it on me. 

Pain is elusive.
She hovers in particles of dust
that settle deep inside of your lungs,
but it’s easier to blame it on me. 

To live is to die.
As the parts of your spirit
that carry your light, dim slowly throughout the years,
but it’s easier to blame it on me. 

Approaching with love 
is a daunting task 
that slices you open at the starting line,
but it’s easier to blame it on me. 

The weight of your fears
is enclosing on you
and you can’t see the way out.
I, holding the door open for you, 
am simply standing in the way. 
I'm an obstacle, a hindrance, 
a dark silhouette amidst shimmering rays.
It makes perfect sense.
Naturally, I am who carries the blame. 

I lost all my words for you.
All my ink, paper, and pen
that used to pertain to a story of two
have fallen abruptly for lack of a story line.
I sit and I wait for words to come to mind, 
but I’m at a blank. 
With a pen in my right and my heart in my left,
no words to describe my insides bereft of 
concrete,
tangible,
actual love. 

She had always belonged to herself. Though she opened to the world, the way flowers do.

Before him, she was just another flower in the garden - open, soft, and unafraid. The sun touched her the same way it touched the others, and she drank it in without question. Bees came and went, hummingbirds hovered and sipped, and she offered her nectar freely, without keeping score. There was no pride in it, no loss either. It was simply her nature to give, to bloom, to exist.

And she was content.

Until she saw him.

He moved differently than the others.

Where bees were purposeful and hummingbirds precise, the butterfly was indulgent - careless in a way that looked like freedom. He drifted from bloom to bloom, tasting without reservations, without allegiance. His wings caught the light like stained glass, opening and closing in a rhythm that felt like a performative dance.

She watched him long before he noticed her.

She began to lean, just slightly, angling herself toward the path he traced through the sky. When the wind carried her scent, she let it linger, sweeter, heavier, hoping it might reach him.

He touched every flower around her.

Every one but her.

Until one day, on a soft and dewey morning, she opened wider than she ever had before.

And he came.

He landed gently, as if he had always known her. As if she had always been waiting.

And something in her changed.

She was elevated. Like being chosen lifted her higher than the soil she was rooted in. She felt taller, though she was not. Brighter, though she was the same. But he kept returning, again and again, and that convinced her she was different. Special.

He still visited the others, of course.

He floated through the entire garden, and sometimes beyond it, disappearing into distances she could not see. But he always came back. Always chose her again, eventually. And she began to live for those returns.

She stopped noticing the bees.

When they approached, she stiffened. Closed slightly. Thorns she hadn’t known she possessed seemed to rise in quiet defense. They were no longer welcome. Neither were the hummingbirds, with their steady wings and patient rhythm. They were too predictable. Too easy.

They were not him.

So she saved herself. Saved everything for the butterfly.

And when she sensed him, when the air shifted just enough, when a shadow flickered across the sky, she transformed. She bloomed in a rush, petals stretching, trembling open. A soft dew gathered along her edges, glistening, waiting.

Ready, and he noticed.

He always went straight to her when he saw her petals open, flushed and expectant. He drank deeply, slowly, as though savoring the way she offered herself so completely.

He liked being wanted.

And she… she loved being desired.

It felt like love. Didn’t it?

One night, he came when she was not ready.

The garden was quiet, folded into itself. The moon hung low, and she had closed, resting in the dark like all the others. There was no invitation in her that night. No bloom, no offering.

But he wanted her. So he took her sweet nectar like it was his to take.

He fluttered softly in the night. He came and pressed against her closed petals, impatient. When they did not open, he pulled. One by one, he forced them back, peeling them apart until her softness was exposed to the cold air.

She felt it.

Not all at once. Not clearly. Just a confusion, a distant awareness that something was wrong, that something was being taken before it was given. And by the time she understood, truly understood, he was already floating away.

She stayed open long after he was gone.

Not by choice, but because she couldn’t close properly anymore. Some of her petals had cracked under the strain. Others bent. A few fell entirely, curling into themselves as they drifted to the soil below.

She wasn’t the same. But she was still there.

And worse, she couldn’t stop thinking about it. About him.

Why her?

He hadn’t forced open any of the others. Not that night. Not ever, as far as she could tell. And he still came back to her. Landed on her more often, drank from her more deeply.

So what did it mean?

Was it love? It must have been.

She turned the questions over and over, trying to shape them into something softer, something she could understand and survive. Because part of her, quiet and buried, still felt… chosen. Still felt wanted.

And that feeling was harder to let go of than the pain. So she adapted.

After that, she made sure she was always ready.

If she sensed him, she bloomed immediately, even if it hurt. Even if it meant stretching what remained of her waning petals too thin. It was easier this way - to open herself on her own terms - than to risk being forced apart again.

But the garden had changed. Or maybe she had. Because one day he stopped coming.

At first, she thought she had missed him. That he had simply passed by while she wasn’t paying attention. So she stayed open longer. Waited harder. Stretched further.

But eventually, she saw him again. Not with her. With others.

Flowers that were untouched. Whole. Fresh. New. Their petals full, plump, and soft. They bloomed effortlessly, without the frantic need to be ready before he arrived.

And he lingered there. Drank from them the way he used to drink from her.

As if she had never been special at all.

She remained where she had always been. Rooted. Open. Waiting.

But the waiting felt different now. He had wings. She did not.

And somewhere deep within her - beneath the broken petals, beneath the longing, beneath the story she had told herself over and over - something began to surface.

A question she had never asked before.

Not why didn’t he stay?

But -

Why did I close myself to everything else… just to wait for him?

Follow the sun. 
I promise I’ll run 
right behind you.

You have a head start,
but it won’t be long 
before I catch up 
to the trail of stars that will follow you through,
as you sprint past the cosmos
like a comet that knows not to crash,
flying past planets and stardust,
and small grains of sand 
that float in the darkness above. 

See how it feels to build 
a corner of the heavens 
from the metaphorical ground, up. 
It won’t be long before
you hear a knock at your door. 
It’ll barely be enough time to settle
before I find my way in the dark. 

I - will - crawl - my - way - to - you.

I will run 
until my legs go numb, 
then get down on my knees,
drag myself by the nails worn down to the stumps.
I will push through storms and thunder and rain 
until my skin clings heavy onto my bones.
I will weather the journey 
until the world dissolves into nothing but breath 
and heartbeat,
until there’s nothing else left 
but me, 
and you, 
until we’re dancing in tune 
to magnificent stars exploding around us. 
I will find you,
wherever you are,
when my time is done.

All you must do is wait for me,
and simply follow the sun.