When I was younger, my father would make me stop to think about what I was saying so that I wouldn’t stutter so much. Now I’m in my twenties and my dad isn’t here to tell me to slow down. So sometimes my head goes too fast and my mouth can’t keep up. My dad isn’t here to tell me to think before I speak. So now I say things and sometimes I’m not even sure what I said or why I said it.
When I was ten, my best friend died. Ever since then I began holding on to everyone and everything so tightly that it becomes a death grip – a death grip so bad that everyone caught in my orbit ends up in the black hole of my life. Everyone who shows me love ends up with a bruised heart and a scorched soul because I am entirely comprised of fire. Like my tongue, my fire gets hard to control.
Growing up, I thought “home” was the building where I stored my clothes and slept at night, but now I realize that “home” is where my heart was planted. I realized that my heart had roots spread in different places – bits and pieces of it trying to grow in places with no love or warmth. My heart was residing in cold, ghost-ridden apartments… until now. Until I met you. Now my heart is in your hands. Maybe your hands shake sometimes. Maybe they’re cold and I have to hold them so they can stay warm. Maybe you’ve never held something so fragile before – but Lord knows that never in my life had I actually felt at home until I saw the shine in your eyes.