#iwritewithmytoaster

if you are the rain, then i am the grass you grow, my love.

i am the object you cast shadows with, my star.

if there is no rain, then there must be no clouds, my belovèd.

what is a planet without its star?

what are trees without water, and what are leaves without their tree?

if you are a goddess, then i will pray at your altar, majesty.

if you are Goddess then i am Woman.

i pray to the unholy about you.

It was hard me to admit, as being in love is not easy. It meant I was vulnerable to you. How could I be so vulnerable?

I mulled it over for days before I even spoke of it. I started to breathe heavy every time I tried to say it out loud. Did that mean it wasn’t real?

It was late one night, I was lying on my stomach in bed and my sister was beside me. “I’m in love,” I say. I didn’t even know I began to cry. I knew I was happy.

Oh, how in love I am with you.

I have not been honest with you. I may seem so confident in our love, and I am, but I am so much more afraid than I let on.

I haven’t accepted at all that I am damaged. I don’t want to. I refuse to accept that it has affected me. I refuse to face my fears and acknowledge them. I refuse to accept that I can’t really trust you as fast as I want to, I can’t give you all of my love like I want to. Not yet.

I am touch-starved, my love. I have no idea what real love feels like but you’re helping me feel it. It’s all so scary and I want to push as far away as I can but I can’t. I just can’t.

My baby, my absolute love. I have not been honest with you, but I’m starting to be.

I wish all of Mother Nature’s creation was in my background, so I can have something to look at while I’m floating there.

All of my problems wouldn’t exist anymore. I would have no feelings. I would have no one to care about. So cynical, it sounds. Isn’t life beautiful? Isn’t it all just one big painting, waiting to be finished?

Our love is making proper tea and fighting over whether or not mine is fake tea (it’s not).

Our love is denying and reluctantly accepting the fact that we are both cute and that’s just how it is.

Our love is that I miss her more only if she loves me more (how adorable).

Our love is such a bloom of a garden, consisting of all our favorite flowers so mixed up within each other. Just like us.

Our love is carved in the dirt yet it shall stay forever. It’s braided into the stems of our garden. It’s embedded in the tea grounds in our cups. It’s fused with our stares we give each other when trying to win who loves who more.

I thought cutting my hair would be the last of me and the beginning of someone else.

I looked at myself in the mirror and cried at my dark brown hair having a length to my butt. Each follicle held a memory that tore me down to my core. To a place of no return.

The day of my haircut, I held my old hair in my hands and cried.

“You’re going to be someone new,” I said to myself in the mirror, tears streaming down my face. “You’re going to be new and it’s all going to be okay.”

I wanted my mom to look at me and not see the daughter that became a disappointment out the blue. I wanted to be loved by her again. I wanted to be loved.

After the haircut, I felt no different. I got it cut to my shoulders and felt like I looked the same. I cried again. How was I supposed to let go of everything if I didn’t change? How could I start anew if I didn’t look it?