Emotional Rot

I feel too deeply for someone who touches the world with gentle fingers. My heart is a storm...theirs is a breeze. And when I reach for them, I always end up holding my breath. If I hollow myself out, if I carve away the pieces that ache maybe I could fit into the small space their love makes for me. But shrinking feels like rot. It feels like peeling myself down to something unrecognizable. Yet staying whole hurts too. My love spills, breaks open, stains everything like blood on white cloth. Every path leads to bleeding... shrink and die slowly, stay large and tear open. And the cruelest thought... if I beg for more love, more effort, more presence, will I strangle what little I have? Will they choke on my hunger? Or would they rise to meet it? I don’t know. And the not knowing gnaws at me. I just want a love that’s loud, that meets me at the edge of every feeling, that doesn’t go quiet when I reach for it. I want to be loved in the same color that I bleed.