Yes you, that sacred part of me that always wants me to express myself in ways I can’t, that always wants me to write the poetry that burns, the story that aches.
I’m done betraying you by thinking I am less than you. By letting all my fears shout over you, by creating chaos instead of the art that drives me to grow.
I’m done finding ways to make you pay for my perceived sins. I’m good, wild, creative enough to deserve you.
Shall we make magic the rest of our life?