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.

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