• Crysta


I haven’t been on a date in two years.

I haven’t stood naked in front of someone in longer than that.

Heart and soul and body all present and accounted for.

I’ve been hiding a while.

Scared and scarred and sacred.

Specifically. Strategically.

I hide because love was a street fight. Smashed glass and broken promises, bold lies and half-truths, suffocating silence and manipulative need. A passionate load of expectation and heartbreak. A cry for freedom, a cry for help.

A street fight is no place to be naked.

The last time I stood naked in front of someone. In the shower. Mascara streaming down my face. Intimacy. Smeared with everything. Everything.

Because I’m a lover, not a fighter. A sweet and tender lover, pure and deep. Unless I need to be a fighter. Then I’m a fighter. A savage wounded and wild fighter.

Maybe I never knew the difference. Maybe I thought they were one and the same. Maybe I loved the wrong people. Maybe I didn’t know love. Maybe I did. Maybe love was a season, as they say.

A broken heart, proof of life. Betrayal, proof of trust. Loneliness, proof of connection. Pain, proof of ease. For the doubters, the naysayers and the cynics. For the hard-hearted and the jaded.

Love, steeped in proof, 100 proof.

Last night, I dreamt of love (not the street fight kind) and woke warm with it.

Savored it. Shared it. Loved it.

It made me not want to hide. Not need to hide.

Today, I bought a candle that smells like a man.

I thought about love and street fights and dreams and showing up naked.

Maybe my street-fighting days are over.


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