The impossible thing about me

is that I am made entirely of opposites.

I want to be understood

without being exposed.

I crave intimacy

while fearing dependence.

I love deeply,

yet spend half my life

planning emotional escape routes.

Somewhere along the way,

survival taught me

that vulnerability and danger

often arrive wearing the same face.

So now I stand at the edge of connection,

wanting desperately to jump

and desperately to run.

And maybe that's the real tragedy.

Not that I've been hurt.

But that I've become a battlefield

where tenderness and self-preservation

fight for territory every day.

not all that wander are lost, adventure awaits my dear

-LR 🖤

We were told death was stone,

a law cut into bone,

cold as gravity, old as rust.

But stone can be shaped by hands.

And these hands were ours.

We carved an ending into the marble

because we thought edges made things beautiful.

Called it “natural” the way we call

a funeral beautiful: with flowers

to hide the wood of the box.

Hell, at least, posts its signage in fire.

No footnotes. No branding strategy.

It says I am what burns and means it.

We say I am what heals while picking at the scab.

We say I am what loves while keeping the receipts.

We are deep because we are dishonest.

The abyss has levels. The lie has architecture.

If mortality was a preference,

then so is the pretending.

So is the mask that swears it’s a face.

So is the story we tell about the mask

while the face underneath forgets its shape.

Maybe the first sin wasn’t disobedience.

Maybe it was taste.

We chose the tragic arc.

We chose the third act.

We chose the curtain.

So when they ask why we gutter out

like candles in a drafty room,

tell them:

We liked the way the shadows danced.

We thought it looked like meaning.

And if we ever choose otherwise,

let it not be to escape the fire—

but to admit we were the ones

holding the match.

The truth is,

I no longer fear death.

Death has always seemed

remarkably honest.

It is life

that terrifies me.

Life—

with its unfinished sentences,

its borrowed happiness,

its talent for teaching attachment

immediately before removal.

Death only takes you once.

Life–

has a far more creative imagination.

I used to think stars were holes in the floor of heaven.

Now I know they’re exit wounds.

Light takes years to reach us

from things already dead.

Same as apologies.

Same as “I miss you.”

By the time it gets here,

the thing that sent it is gone.

We’re all just looking at ghosts

and calling it a night sky.