That edge where you feel pure electricity. Where suddenly, you’re gone, and they’re everything, and the place where your shoulders touch is an eternal circuit. Just knowing they exist is enough to bathe in joy for a year or two. And when you land, all of a sudden, in your own skin, you wonder if you’re capable of feeling any other way but this.
Accepting and celebrating my body is tough on the days when I desperately want it to be different. When curves and breasts and hips feel alien, unwelcome. When I want to cut my hair short and cover everything, leaving all traces of my femme self in the dust. I wish it were more simple. I wish I could find the “right” way to be me. And yet living in the limerance is a strange and magical gift, too.
I harbored words like rocket fuel, hoping they would take me away. My early years could be so lonely. The seeker in me has taken so long to come to story for its own sake. To share from my overflow rather than dig into bleeding gut. I am an infinite, inviting collage.
