I despise the idea that I can be obtained. That someone, in their heart of hearts, wishes to capture mine, and hold it as their own; to curl their fingers around my ribs and pinch my chest open until the whisper of my breath against my bones is replaced by their love.

I despise the idea that I can be captivated, and so willingly, by newfound beauty, so enthralled that I am rendered utterly speechless, completely broken. I am an inadequate being, and I cannot be but seduced by lovely things—I am but human, and I cannot replace that feeling. 

I despise the idea that I can be gripped—pulled in by passion into another's embrace, enfolded in their arms, intertwined with their affection, their heartstrings tying with mine, looping and drawing shapes, colors and sounds created by the beating of our hearts—those fickle muscles, so attached, barely known. 

I despise the idea that I can be known—what right do they have, knowing me? What right do they have, pulling me in so far, tangling so easily with my desire? Matching it. What right do they have, making me want to know, to see, to feel? I cannot be so weak. I refuse to stoop so low. 

I despise the idea that love is careful—love is a burning, ardent flame, thousands of little embers that flare on your skin, latch on, and burn you, leaving marks. I can't watch, everytime one of my friends falls for someone, calls their name in the dark, reaching with desperate fingers for their bodies, for something to cling to in their deluded fantasies, clouded by the misplaced judgement of youth. It tears me apart, standing at their bedsides as the sickness of obsession, of feeling, peeling the skin from their bones and leaving me, helpless and hurting, the ache of my grudging respect for their efforts lingering in my breastbone. I suppose that if they can give in, why can't I?

I suppose that, if they can fall away, rejection coloring their skin of pale, scattered pigments, I can step forward, make those despicable feelings known to the world, tell them everything. 

But I cannot, because, as I say, I despise the idea that the music of their speech does not grace my ears, does not stop, or start, just for me. It does not begin for my enjoyment, does not begin at my request. I cannot let myself get hurt, and I cannot bear the thought that my affection for those terrible and kind is unrequited. I am but a wandering woman, barely caught on the edges of my childhood, and yet tipping on the edge of change. I wonder if they would care to watch my fall, to pick me up, to right me again? 

I despise the idea that they could feel the same—it would break me, surely, to feel, finally, that which I crave, but I do hope for it—I hope so terribly it spills from my lips, burns my tongue. The lowly things I feel, the willingness I have to stoop and curl in and cower. 

I despise the idea that they could see my heart, poured across the page, and wonder who, on the other side, has spilled such words, stained the paper with her pain.