So, my love, watch me fall apart. No, more than that. Help me fall apart. Let us tease ourselves open with kisses, and let our soft caresses wear away the crumbling foundations and ancient walls that limit rather than protect us.
I’m ready to feel, and let loose so that I can feel, a fire within my chest. One that burns from the inside out, smoking ribs, charring flesh, bursting forth into the night as my head peels back with a shout of too-long-imprisoned self escaping from my lips.
Whitman understood this---that life, art, and emotion are inherently messy. This acceptance of messiness has been my turning point. I now embrace that I have a messy soul. That I have a messy mind. That I have a messy heart. They are filled with joy, and filled with defeat.