I read that we are not afraid of love but afraid of not being loved back.
I’m afraid that with each passing year, I have become hard of heart yet I want to be soft. I want to be as soft as the flesh thats pads my sturdy bones. As soft as my eyes when they swell with tears. I want my heart to be sculpted by hands that could melt metal and break wood.
I want to be reminded that the love I give is not shameful. It is a gift. 


For too long I’ve dreaded aloneness, afraid of feeling forgotten or overlooked. Unwanted. Unloved. I binged and purged on the attention of others and resented them when it wasn’t enough and resented them more when it was too much. 

I’d forgotten what it was like to be apart and on my own. To choose company instead of demanding it and desperately needing it to fill the void I felt in my bones. So frightened of being forgotten that I forgot myself. Life is quiet right now and I feel safe. 

The end of the affair

After all the tears, rehearsed conversations and nights awake worrying, the end of the whole affair was quiet, considered and calm. She held out for one extra night together, just in case things might be different this one time but she realised that he was who he was and not what she needed anymore, if ever. He didn’t need her expectations. She didn’t need his indifference. Her love was misplaced and misconstrued. His love? She had no idea.