I’m trying to unfold you like one of those paper fortunetellers from childhood.
My fingers desperate to know every concealed aspect of you,
My head, the mistro, operating under a phobia of secrets.
I am always trying to beat love to the punch,
preserving my perfection from a distance.
Terrified of wanting someone who doesn’t want me.
Beneath this MAC,
I suffer a heartsickness of my own creation.
My strength and vulnerability are bitter rivals,
always splitting me in two,
Unaware that they are twins.
I call myself an island
as I hope to be claimed by a continent.
I find myself praying for someone to
not just love my fire,
but someone who likes the taste of it.
So here I am
with paper cuts on one hand,
and fingers crossed on the other.
I want to love someone without secret weapons,
But I’m not sure I have the courage to disarm.