But for now, I am content to be lost in the stars. To dance in the void, in my very own cosmic ballet.

She holds your hand. Not because she has to, but because you both know you’ve been brave and come so far and are in love. And because you’ve always liked the way your fingers feel when they blend together for the first time, every time. Like home. But only not. Because you’ve come so far on purpose.

The director of my life cast me as strong, without asking if I was happy being a fortress carved in scars.

Whispered sighs blending into melody, a story waiting to be told.

I want to roll over into arms that understand the strength it takes to wear my armour all day long. I want to be held by arms that appreciate how important it is that, with them, I can cast my armour aside to be warm and open and gentle; completely vulnerable without fear.

As individuals, we all sit at a metaphorical potter’s wheel from the beginning. Our clay is soft and wet to the touch, and it spills in endless motion. It forms new shapes constantly; versions of ourselves that, once finished, can only be shattered into countless sharp, unforgiving shards.