I come bearing fruit from the northern isles—you look at the ripe mango,
and wonder which flesh is sweeter, more tender. You surmise that the hurt
has rendered me soft, and my penchant for the saccharine can be attributed
to my obstinate ways. There’s truth to this—even in your false depictions of
me, the sentiment remains the same; my heart is a thing born of wildfires, no
amount of controlled burns can bring it to a natural state, a lush green scenery
you can enjoy without the fear of being consumed. There is kindling hiding in
all the crevices, all this to say—I was meant to be scorched, I don’t know what is
to follow, if you wait long enough, all things will green again—but asking you
to be patient, with no set timeline is a cruelty I cannot ask you to endure. It’s
okay, I’ve come a long way from thinking I was only permitted to a sliver of the
sun. I shifted my needs to love—yearning alone can sustain me, the promise of
your caress is water to me. Yearning you is an ardent art that is best understood
by doing, instead of explaining—I don’t know you in the capacity that I want
to, yet you still leave a crater on my entire being. Imagine that my love.
